


The Highlights

by coffinofachimera



Series: Studies In Hurricane Thunderclaps [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Couch Sex, Grocery Shopping, Hair Dyeing, Harry-centric, Humor, Internalizing, Light Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam helps Harry highlight his hair with a boxed highlighting kit from Tesco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tesco

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this [drabble](http://benwinstagram.tumblr.com/post/137223254016/london-harry-is-funny-to-me-cos-he-in-the) by benwinstagram and this [ask](http://benwinstagram.tumblr.com/post/137224194331/not-to-make-this-about-lirry-but-liam-was-looking) on their blog! I've had fun writing.

There were seven shelves, top to bottom, and Harry got to counting forty-two boxes of hair dye on the first shelf with the poke of his index finger before the voice of a chuckling woman made him lose count. He pulls away his finger from L'Oréal Paris Excellence Creme Natural Dark Brown 4 and shoots a worried frown behind him, woefully anticipating a small fan pointing her phone's camera at him with an excited grin. _Harry was seen buying hair dye in London!_ But there, three feet away in the middle of the aisle, stood a tall, stout woman in a fur coat, instead. Two inches of grey hair peeks from the base of her coiffed, cherry brown beehive; ready for the touch up. In her right hand she swings a shopping basket, rolling a single can of beans side to side. The other hand: nothing. No phone. Harry stands up straight and turns himself around to face her.

"You just gonna count them all, love?" she chuckles again. Her voice is small and high in contrast to her sophisticated semblance. Harry wonders if she knows who he is. Maybe. "You writing a report?" Probably not.

Harry doesn't like her mocking tone. He squints his eyes with a frown the way he does when he's rude without meaning to. But that's quickly blinked away and followed by a cute laugh. Because Harry's terribly excited in his core, so he'll push away the hurt feelings on the surface. _This is an excellent opportunity_ , he thinks. _Commoner conversation_. It's rare; second one of the break. This feels like dress-up. He looks both ways to check for incoming traffic. It's safe to cross, so here comes the first step. "I was just curious, is all," Harry laughs. "There's so many colors, I—" And he glances behind him, pointing to the boxes of hair dye. "I didn't know there were twenty-six shades of brown."

"That's true. So many boxes for the same three colors: brown, black and blonde."

"It's a very competitive business."

The woman doesn't grasp what Harry means, and instead smiles with an awkward nod.

"For the companies that make the dyes," Harry quickly clarifies. "They have to... come up with all these shades the other company doesn't have."

Although invested, she doesn't seem interested, and promptly changes the subject to herself. "I've been dying my hair brown with the same brand for some... well, I'd say at least twelve years. I don't know too much about—" She waves her fingers at the shelves of hair dye behind Harry, "all those colors. I'll bet you know even less!"

"Yeah." Harry chuckles. "I haven't got any experience. Although I do have a friend who's a hairdresser. I know—... actually, maybe I know a thing or tw—"

"I use Nice N' Easy in auburn." The woman pokes her beehive with her fingertips, looking up at the Tesco ceiling lights. "The color is so rich and creamy and lasts months. I'd use— Oh, what am I telling you for!" she laughs. "You're a boy! This is all ladies' business."

"It's fine. I like... learning." The conversation doesn't seem like a right fit— not to Harry's expectations. She keeps taking control of the direction and he's put off.

The woman laughs. "Your girlfriend's got you out running her errands, does she? Buying her hair dye?"

Harry pauses out of habit to draft the perfect answer. Although, she seems harmless enough for put his guard down. Say the truth, maybe. _No way_ , he thinks. "Yeah." And Harry turns around, deciding this is a good time to pick the box and leave. "It's a... highlight kit." His eyes dash to the section with all the blonde girls, and he begins scanning each box for the right brand, the one recommended to him.

"Has she told you what brand?" she asks, watching Harry squat down to bottom shelf.

"L'Oréal," he mumbles quietly, just as he finds the box he thinks he's looking for. L'Oréal Paris Perfect Blonde Creme Highlight Kit. _It has to be this one_ , he thinks. _No other highlight kit here... And Lou said it was L'Oréal._ Habitually, he looks both ways again to see if anyone is around before picking out the box. And then, a sudden rush of excitement shoots through him, like he's holding a wild adventure in his hand— in this box. He wonders if every essential really is included. But before Harry can get to reading the back, the woman in the fur coat interrupts him.

"That's rubbish."

Harry furrows his brow with a heavy sigh through his nose. He turns his head to look behind his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "What is?"

"L'Oréal is rubbish."

"Hey, I thought you didn't know about brands."

"I don't know about colors but, love, everyone knows L'Oréal is rubbish," she says with an amused smile as she lights her divine wisdom on the young man. This seems just fine to her.

But it's upsetting to Harry. He wants to know why, his green eyes too intense for the trivial topic. "Why?"

"The color washes away, gets dingy. It's much too harsh on your hair, as well."

"Says who..."

"Friends and family. You know how it is, love. You hear stories. Or you take a look at their hair the next day they buy themselves a L'Oréal box of hair dye." She crinkles her nose and shakes her head. "No good. You don't want your girl using that."

Now Harry is worried, turning his head forward again to look down at the box. There isn't another highlight kit. Which one will he buy if not this one? Defensive, Harry mumbles, "Are you sure? Th-This is the brand her friend told her to get."

The woman keeps silent, and walks over to Harry. She stands beside him to his right, facing the shelves as she drops her basket beside her high heels. Her fur coat rubs against Harry's black, felt overcoat. The fuzzy sound makes his skin crawl down his back, and he wiggles away. "Let's see..." she starts, "I know I saw it here..."

Harry checks the aisle for people again. Inevitably, he thinks of what might be said if he's photographed squatting in front of the hair dye shelves in Tesco beside a middle-aged woman in a fur coat. But no one is roaming the aisle; they're all alone. Harry's thighs are beginning to ache from squatting, but he keeps position thinking the woman somehow wants him to stay in place.

"Oops!"

The sound came from the woman's shopping basket, making Harry turn his head to the right.

"Kicked my basket there..."

Harry wonders where his own shopping basket is. A quick look to the ground and there, to his left, his little basket. It bothers him how he forgot when it was so close by. As the woman preoccupies herself in silence, Harry takes a moment to look in his basket. A small, perturbed sigh escapes his lips as he doubts his choices in groceries for the third time this morning. Gluten free spaghetti pasta, sweet potato crisps, fabric softener, a duster, a bath sponge, three kinds of string cheese, a packet of black pens and a gallon of chocolate ice cream. The chocolate ice cream makes the basket too heavy, but Harry won't put it back. It's melting, too. The container sweats profusely, but that's not an issue that occurs to him as he thoughtlessly runs his finger over the wet droplets for sensation's sake.

Back and forth between aisles, from one side of Tesco to the other, feeling lost and unfulfilled— that's how Harry's been shopping for his groceries.  Being an amateur means his choice in goods is blind to practicality, and he's faced with a crisis every time he looks at something he wants— or thinks he should want. Money isn't a problem. Harry just wants to be self sufficient; capable of mastering the art of grocery shopping the way he thinks every person his age living on their own is surely capable of. He's terrified of forgetting what it is to be normal— of straying too far from the things he's left behind. Harry's trying hard to figure out the steps he skipped to the get to the place he's been for the past five years. Looking up how to carry out the elementaries of society feels like cheating— an unforgivable offense, he's decided.

Harry sticks out his hand and slides the basket closer to him, and it nearly throws him off balance. He grabs onto the woman's fur coat beside him, ready to apologize until she speaks first.

"Here you are, love." She holds the box in front of Harry, and bossily tells him in a mothering way, "Come on now, on your feet."

So he does, struggling a little on account of his new black leather boots; just a little too high heeled.

"Here."

And Harry takes the boxed hair dye from her hand into his, glancing both ways down the aisle again before mumbling out the title as he reads, "Jerome Russell B Blonde Maximum Highlight Kit." Harry turns the box sideways to look at the before and after pictures. Light brown before, bright blonde after. _This won't work._ "This is really blonde..."

"They're highlights! That's what she wanted, innit? What color is her hair?"

"Brown. Like mine."

"Oh, it won't go blonde on the first try," she shakes her head. "You hair has to be quite a light shade from the beginning to go blonde." And then she stands closer to Harry, leaning over to poke the box hard with her red, acrylic nail. "Now this is a good product. Jerome Russell. Excellent product. Brown hair with nice highlights? Your girl doesn't want L'Oréal, your girl wants this."

She sounds like a salesman and it makes Harry laugh. And then he nods with a sigh, pursing his lips. There's a moment of reconsideration and reflection in that.

This woman must be in her late forties, early fifties. She's very tall— taller than Harry— with a fur coat, fake nails and a _beehive_. Old glamour, old beauty; she definitely knows her stuff. Twelve years of box dye experience is different from four years of beauty school. Lou isn't that good of a hair dresser in the end, Harry knows. He turns to the woman, facing up to look into her brown eyes that sit surrounded by a deep blue shadow all around her lids. "Will it look nice?" he mutters, sounding little. "I want to— to my um, my girlfriend to look nice."

"My daughter uses Jerome Russell and her hair is just the _loveliest_ butterscotch blonde. It's just like a salon! With highlights and lowlights and all that. Do you know what that is? Gorgeous."

"But she doesn't want to be blonde."

"Oh no, _trust_ me, she won't be going blonde with this on the first try. And it's all right here, love, everything you need." She's a very assertive, convincing woman, making Harry nod again. Taking control of the conversation— he seems to appreciate her doing so, now. "Your girlfriend has to follow the instructions. Has she ever dyed her hair before?"

"No. First time."

"New year, new look! That's the spirit. Getting out there and taking risks! I'll bet she's trying to look cute for you!"

She's shouting, too excited to realize she's making a scene— and making Harry check for other shoppers in the aisle again. This time there is. His breath hitches a little, freezing him in place. A woman pushes her shopping cart slowly, eyes fixated on the shelves to her right. But then she gives Harry a glance. A passing glance, she doesn't seem very interested. She might have been looking at the woman in the fur coat. But Harry can't take it. Caught shopping for blonde hair dye— This is could all be too incriminating for Harry Styles. And he panics.

"I've gotta go." he whispers, embarrassment making him snort as he throws the highlight kit in his basket.

"Oh!"

"Thank you!" Harry bends over to grab the handle, the weight of his shopping basket making him wobble as he takes flight.

"Bye-bye!"

So _loud_. Harry winces and raises his hand, wiggling his fingers in a goodbye as he power walks out of the hair care aisle, his long coat swishing behind him. The woman is left disappointed and alone, shuffling her fur coat with a pout as she begins the search for her own box of hair dye. "Sweet boy."

"Nice lady..." Harry whispers to himself as he walks through the empty Tesco. The box of hair dye must have been heavier than he realized, because the shopping basket feels unbearably heavy now, like it pushed past the weight limit. And that's usually Harry's cue to go to the check-out and go home with his groceries.

This time, Harry made the mistake of wearing too many rings. The weight of the shopping basket is strangling his fingers inside the gold bands. "Ow, ow, ow." He puts down the basket and quickly takes off his rings to place in his coat pocket. "Fuck..." The bases of three of his fingers are red and dented, somehow hurting more now that he took off the rings. He rubs over them, pouting as he feels the skin throb.

"Psst!"

Harry hears it behind him. His eyes go wide. _Fuck_. And then he remembers the box of hair dye. He can't let whoever it is see that. Not subtly enough, Harry bends over and throws the crisps and cheese over the hair dye to hide it quickly, panicking at the thought of it appearing in a fan picture.

" _Psst!"_ "

 _Oh my God, don't let it be for me_. He stands up straight again and keeps his head down, rubbing his aching fingers like he can't hear.

" _Psssst!!_ "

This time Harry feels a hard poke on his shoulder. With dread making his stomach feel heavy, Harry turns around with the most affable expression he can fake. But for the second time this morning, Harry is pleasantly surprised when he turns around. And he grins, letting out a laugh when he sees who it really is. "Hey!"

"Fancy seeing you here!" It's Liam. Shaved head and a big smile. He walks in a light grey hoodie—bulky enough for the cold weather— nice jeans and black sneakers. Harry can't say he expected this at all. Liam merrily pushes a shopping cart right towards him, doing all the work as Harry stays in place. He throws his own watchful glances around him to check for sneaky fans with phones until he catches up to Harry. A big hug comes next, with tight squeezes and too-hard pats to the back.

"Look at us," Harry points to Liam's cart with a dimpled grin before looking down at his shopping basket as he gives it a little kick.

"Yeah. Wow...." Liam laughs, nodding his head. Completely thrilled. Resting his weight on the shopping cart handle, he says, "Uh, how are you... H-Ha-H-Ho-Horton."

Harry giggles before putting a straight face, playing along. "I'm great, Leslie."

"Leslie?!" Liam snorts.

"I haven't seen you since... university!"

"Yeah."

"Do you still work at... the zoo?" Harry can't keep that straight face, getting chubby-cheeked as he holds his laughter.

"Yes! Yeah."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. They promoted me from lemur to gorilla."

And Harry slaps his hand over his mouth, breaking into a laughing fit he desperately tries to keep contained. He wears it out for a moment, glancing around him before putting down his hand. "They gave you your own cage," he chuckles, hushed and with eyes crinkled.

"It's great. Now it's only my shit I smell."

Harry cackles again, covering his whole face this time. He feels Liam's hand on his shoulder, shaking him so he'll shut up. "God..." Giggling, Harry pulls his sunglasses out of his hair, running his fingers back through his long, brown curls to fix the shape before slipping the glasses back on like a headband. They speak quietly, muttering and mumbling their exchange. "This is nice. This is pleasant."

"It. is. _great_ , is it not?" Liam hunches over and shakes his shopping cart by the handle in a celebratory uproar until the whole thing rattles. But he's quiet about it, whispering a short-lived, " _Yeeeeeeah_ —"

"Hey, I took your advice."

Liam straightens his back. "Hey, you did. Did you come at eight in the morning?"

"I came at seven."

Liam doesn't bring up how, in two hours' worth of walking, Harry only managed to gather a small shopping basket of groceries. He doesn't want to poke fun at him. So, "I came at eight," he says. "You didn't see me?"

"No. It's really empty, but... I don't know, I didn't see you."

Liam looks well-rested, fresh-faced. Harry notices the absence of his favorite cologne, the one that smells rich and sexy. That tells him Liam plans on going home after this. Maybe back to bed. No dates, shopping or songwriting for him today. The cologne will be saved for another time. The cigarette smoke, however, didn't take the day off. But Harry notices, the smell is fainter than he ever remembers it being before. Even for the early morning. There was a point in 2014 when the second Liam cracked open his eyes he had to step outside for a cigarette or two. Big, deep breaths; leaving nothing but a bud of orange with the tiniest ring of white. The smell wrapped around his bare skin as obsessively as Liam let it, and once he put on clothes it was another round, another cloud, another layer of tobacco smoke to stick to him. Again and again, every day. But not today. Hardly at all, Harry thinks happily. Maybe one cigarette in the Tesco parking lot, and maybe just smoked half way. And Harry thinks to mention this all with a congratulation, but he figures Liam will proudly boast his achievements once he feels like he's met them all the way. So Harry stays quiet, hoping maybe Liam might share some good news later on so he can jump in to celebrate.

Liam looks around, nodding to acknowledge Tesco's empty corridors. "Yeah, it is empty. My mum told me this is the time where everyone's gone to work and school. So it's just completely deserted everywhere, not just Tesco."

"It's nice. I like it."

"What did you get?" Liam points to Harry's shopping basket, curious of that tiny grocery he managed in two hours.

"Um." Harry turns his head and kicks his shopping basket over until it's in front of his feet. "I've done quite a shit job, to be honest. I don't wanna to bend over so... I've got um... some crisps, some cheese, some.... um, pasta, a duster, a bath sponge, chocolate ice cream. I got pens as well. I think that's all I have for today. I've finished, though. I was on my way to pay up just now.  It's not very essential. But... I bought a few other things on my last trips."

"Here? At Tesco."

"I try to switch up the stores. I don't wanna have a set routine of places I frequent. You know how it is." Stalkers, he means. "But I only went to Whole Foods once. The rest was Tesco. This store, specifically: first time today."

"How many times have you done groceries?"

"Um... this is the fourth time, I think. This week. In general, I think, seven times."

"This is just my second time since the break," Liam says proudly, tapping his cart's handle. "You get one of these big carts and you dump all your shit in. It's better than with the little baskets. Especially when you haven't got like, anything in your cabinets at home. It's good to make _big_ groceries to start off. Like for us since we just got here and stuff. But yeah, big carts work better. Just in my experience. Better than back and forth running around."

Harry would lie and say that he likes the running around, that it gives him something to do, but he really hates it. At least when it comes to grocery shopping. It feels like the test he keeps failing. "Yeah. I guess I'll try it that way." Harry hadn't thought about it the way Liam put it, if he's put any thought into grocery shopping at all. That must be why he fails. Grocery shopping can't help but be a spontaneous event for him, occurring to his mind with a fickle, insistent little spring. And Harry can never remember what things he has and doesn't have at home. "I need to make lists."

"Yeah, lists as super helpful."

"You make lists?" Harry asks as he looks inside Liam's cart.

"Yeah."

He can see plastic bags, cans, bottles and boxes. It all looks balanced and organized perfectly, ready for a professional photographer to snap a photo and put it in a food and lifestyle magazine.

"Feast your eyes, Styles. Excellent groceries."

"Nice."

 "Take note."

"Already am." And then, something catches Harry's eye. He turns his head, looking over his shoulders again before he reaches into Liam's shopping cart and pulls out something with a grin. Boxed hair dye; Clairol Nice 'N Easy Natural Palest Blonde. "Are you planning on going blonde, Liam?" No doubt this isn't for Liam, but it's the funniest coincidence. Harry wonders if he should tell Liam about his own box, his chest now burning with the urge to reveal his risky secret. "You'll look like Amber Rose." And he quotes the woman in the fur coat, "New year, new look. That's the spirit!"

"It's for my mum, you twat!" Liam exclaims as hushed as he can as he yanks the box back. "I always thought she went to the salon, but she uses this box. She wanted me to go get it for her. I didn't know they had these, actually." He turns the box around in his hand, inspecting it. Grocery shopping. Boxed hair dye. Exciting, new topics. Exciting, new worlds. They meet and discuss the findings of their wild safari trip like the clueless adventurers they are. "I mean, I know these boxes existed but I never actually, I don't know, like, knew they were so common and were just around in stores everywhere. Girls do it all the time. Change their hair color like that on their own in their bathrooms. Learn something new every day, I suppose."

"Mhm." Harry looks around, taking good looks and analyzing every customer with caution.

"A lot of that this year."

"Yeah."

At the second uninterested mumble, Liam turns his head up with eyes narrowed. "What? Saw someone?"

Harry's still looking. "No."

"What is it?"

Harry turns back around with an anxious wiggle and quickly bends down into his basket for the box of hair dye. He digs it up from under the crisps, the cheese, and in one slick move he pulls the box out and smuggles it against his belly before walking up to Liam real close. Like a dealer with illegal goods, not to be seen by anyone. Harry taps the cardboard a few times to get Liam to look down.

"What is that, for your mum, too?" He seems excited just by that. "She's going blonde?"

"Me." Harry whispers.

"What?" Liam whispers back.

" _Me_. It's for me."

"What?!"

"Yes, me." Harry is giggling, still holding the box close to his chest.

Liam stays quiet, brown eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "You are mad." he laughs suddenly. "What?! Have you gone mad?!" Somehow that pleases Harry. He always takes that shock as a compliment— at least from Liam. After throwing his mother's box of Nice N' Easy hair dye back in his cart, Liam yanks Harry's box from his hand. "Let me see that!"

Harry steps closer until his shoulder touches Liam's to form a wall. _Private business_ , he thinks. Out of sight from any supermarket bystanders. "Be careful. Don't flail it around."

Liam turns his head to the side to look at Harry. "Private business?"

Harry turns his head to Liam and blinks, train of thought vanishing as he asks, "What?" Their gazes lock.

"Hm?"

And then the topic disappears from them both. There isn't a real thought at all.

Harry pouts, and shoves his shoulder into Liam. And Liam wiggles his shoulder to rub on Harry's. Their faces are inches apart, their gazes feeling stronger to each other. Harry to Liam; a very wide, magical emerald green. Liam to Harry; a very dark, warm coffee brown to Harry. It takes some time for them speak. But they snap back; the topic comes back. Somehow, to both of them at the same time. And they just laugh.

Harry furrowing his brow to say,

_It's fucking embarrassing, isn't it?_

Liam rubbing his palm over his fuzzy head to say,

_Sure is._

Nothing new. They're both smart enough to expect glitches living in the real world. These new environments—  knocks them into a daze, sometimes. Like talking about hair dye in Tesco at 9am without a schedule for the whole day is some kind of limbo for Harry Styles and Liam Payne; floating in some surreal circumstance that demands proper reflection for them to feel normal. The alien factor of their new day-by-day status feels like a burden they all prefer to keep away, and just pretend they really are normal people; that they can assimilate like nothing's changed. And that disregard beckons blackouts, darkness. Like the ground disappears beneath them when they're not dealing with the culture shock properly. When it's so peaceful, so big, so empty— that's a strange place to be. Like orphaned lion cubs going back to the wild as adults for the first time. It really is a limbo without that routine; that caretaker coming with the milk bottle three times a day, and the butcher's meat to hang from a rope on a tree to make it seem like prey. Documentary cameras with them, sometimes. Strange for sure— the real world. They're strangers to it, as stubbornly as they choose to deny it.

Liam laughs kind of helplessly, looking around to see if anyone saw. And he nods his head before looking back at the box of hair dye. He clears his throat and Harry chuckles. "Uh... alright. Maximum Highlighting Kit," Liam reads, taking that in with a pause before whispering again, "Harry this is gonna make you a proper blonde..." He'll finish his delayed train of thought in a moment. "You're gonna go fucking... _blonde_?"

Harry gets back to his own thoughts, too. "It's just highlights."

"Yeah, well this says blonde. _Maximum_ blonde.

Armed with the wisdom of the woman in the fur coat, Harry defends himself. "It doesn't go blonde on dark hair. And it's highlights. Read the box. It's not gonna be super blonde. Or blonde at all, really. It's gonna be light brown."

"This says blonde," he states firmly, throwing an alert and watchful glance over his shoulder. "Harry I'm like, 99% certain that this isn't what you want."

"What do you know? You're bald."

Offended, Liam passes a hand over the top of his shaved head. "Not bald! And I know plenty about hair, actually. Because I'm like, actually in the room for when it's time for Lou to do our hair. And you don't need to know about hair when the _pictures_ ," Liam pokes his fingers over the before and after pictures of hair, "show you what the hair dye does."

"Well, I'm certain that that box," Harry pokes the Jerome Russell box of hair dye in Liam's hand, "is, in fact, exactly what I need."

"Says who?"

"First of all, says Lou," Harry says with a small, smug, squinty eyed smile. "I asked."

The first taste of London winter was making Harry miss Los Angeles, and in melancholy he got to thinking of beaches and the cool surfer guys taming the waves. Harry never could learn to surf. But something about the surfer boy look was calling to him. The promise of a new year's reign of change being just days away was working its influence on him.

 _Im thinking I want some highlights_ , Harry texted Lou some time in late December. Lou was excited, and promptly texted back him she would do it herself. But that terrified Harry. From the way she greases his hair at events, to the wiry blonde hair on Niall's head— he didn't want Lou near his precious hair. So Harry lied and said he wanted to do it himself for the experience, not from fear of her. She got to telling him complicated procedures to scare him into letting her do it, but Harry called her out on that. And she was forced to offer him a practical way: a L'Oréal boxed highlight kit.

In reality, Lou told Harry to get a box of supermarket hair dye to spite him, offended he refused her services. Boxed hair dyes run a high risk of failure for the inexperienced first-time buyer. But Harry didn't catch on to that at all. Obviously. Unfortunately.

"She wanted me to buy powder and um.... like, activator or some shit and a bunch of other shit but I said no," Harry tells Liam in a whisper. "So... she told me to get a highlight kit from Tesco. But, they're going to be less," Harry circles his hand around his head, "intense highlights," and then wiggles his fingers coming down like streaks of highlights. "Not exactly like the box. It's gonna very, very subtle. Like beach highlights when you're in the sun for long periods of time. Surfers get it!" His face lights up, little smile across his lips. That's the look he wants. "It'll be very, very subtle."

"Then... why get this box? Why not get a box with the actual color you want? For your _subtle California beach highlights_ ," Liam says in a mocking American accent. "And why dye your hair if you can't tell the difference..."

Harry gives Liam a deadpan frown, taking the Jerome Russell highlight kit from Liam's grasp as he grumbles,

"Because it's my choice, Liam."

"Your choices can be questionable."

"If I want barely noticeable highlights that's my prerogative."

" _That's my prerogative_ ~" Liam sings softly.

"I knew that was coming..."

"That... definitely seems like it would be your motto." Liam gives a goofy giggle as he amuses himself. And then he places a hand on his cart like a farmer would on his prized cow; possessive and proud. "I mean, do what you want, you know. But... you sure you can do it yourself? All on your own?"

Harry huffs, eyes wide in a tired kind of exasperation. "Jesus Christ, will you get off my ass?" he mumbles. "And _yes_ , I _do_ plan on doing it myself. Everyone does."

"What are you gonna do if you fuck up, though? Like, what if you end up with white hair like Lou?"

"That's what brown hair dye is for."

"Oh, your hair is gonna be super friiied, mate. It's gonna feel like a hay stack like Niall's and it's going to _fall off_."

"...What the hell, Leslie..." This is such heavy pessimism, very unlike Liam. Harry stays quiet, frowning deep and hard with squinted eyes. Liam succeeded in making a point, good enough to break through Harry's obstinance. Harry's mind shifts its gears, of course. He directs his gaze to look at Liam for a very long time before quietly saying, "Well now you've made me insecure, Liam," And he tosses the box of Jerome Russell hair dye back into his shopping basket. It's an attack; Missile #1 loaded with guilt, targeted to Liam and launched from below.

"Nooo," Liam whispers, laughing helplessly. Direct hit. His face goes soft, eyebrows curving just a little as he comes to Harry's rescue. "I'm sorry, I was harsh. No, no. Don't listen to me. Go for it, mate. I mean it."

"Yeah go for it and fry your hair and burn it off and ruin it because you're inexperienced." Harry nods, speaking calmly. Missile #2 launched. "Yeah, do you, Harry. Make a statement. Be your fucking self. That's brilliant, Liam. I love it."

But Liam chuckles, rolling his eyes this time. "You know, you're so sensitive. You always do what people tell you not to like, 'I'll do whatever I want I don't care', but then with me you're like, always getting offended and crying. You do it on purpose."

Target missed. Liam dodged Harry's attack in one swift swerve. Practice does make perfect. Not the first time he's figured out Harry's war tactics. "You have that effect on me," Harry mumbles innocently, turning his head away with a shrug as he scratches the back of his neck.

"I'm your bloody target is what I am. Now I suppose I'll gonna... feel guilty and help you dye your hair because I don't want you not dying it on account of me, yeah? Because I want you to have your fun, and I don't want you messing up your hair. Because I'm worried. So I'll do it. That's what I'm gonna do for you. That's the 'Liam effect', innit?"

This dismantles the very art of war. Not for the first time. Not in five years. Harry's missiles to Liam are more styrofoam dart than they are a deadly weapon. Liam falling to his knees is more likened to an adult playing along to a child's game of pretend than it is a wounded soldier. Harry tries to keep a straight face, looking Liam in the eyes in the wake of his blunt call out. It's as funny as it is embarrassing.

"Am I right? Huh? Or am I right?" Liam sounds like a parent catching their kid in a lie, now. Except he isn't half as serious and a little sexy. "Smug little brat." That one was more serious, and a lot more sexy. Until Liam cracks up, sealing his lips with a grin to keep from laughing. "Hm?"

The embarrassment is too much for Harry and he snorts, "Shit."

"Yeah." Liam nods with a satisfied grin as he takes a few steps back to stand behind his shopping cart again, ready to push. And he does, a little.

"So you'll come over?"

Liam raises his eyebrow, not expecting what he said to be taken as an offer. "Your house?"

"For... my highlights," Harry whispers before laughing; cheeks all dimpled, all red.

"Yeah, yeah. But listen, I'm... I've got some more shopping to do. You can head home, if you want and like, just wait for me there."

Harry doesn't say anything as he bends over to pick up his shopping basket. He just flips his hair a little, touching it with his fingers so it fluffs up the curls at the bottom. And he cocks his head at his best angle before pouting just a little. "Lee..." And he waits for Liam's cautious, and narrow-eyed,

"...What?" He's waiting for it. The favor.

But not before Harry looks around Tesco for fans nearby. No one seems to be paying attention to them. "Can I put this in your cart?" Harry whispers as he gently rocks his shopping basket in his head. "It's heavy."

"... _I'm_ paying for it?"

Harry dodges the question as he pouts a little again, keeping his theatrics subtle but shameless enough for it to be fun, flirty. "I'll wait in the parking lot. We can drive home together. You might not know the way after such a long time..."

Liam makes a face, brow furrowed tightly together. He shakes his head at Harry's absurd and shameless seduction. And for such a measly, cheap thing. "Piss off, millionaire sugarbaby," he scoffs.

Harry keeps pouting, lowering his head now to sell a more sincere and pitiful expression. Crushed dreams, brokenhearted.

"....Oh, go ahead. Throw it in."


	2. The Living Room

"My hand doesn't fit in the glove."

Harry turns around in the wooden stool, looking back towards the kitchen where Liam works with the contents of the highlight kit on the marble counter; papers, bottles, tubes. But a good thirty feet away, Harry had trouble hearing him. The echo only carries his voice so far before it blurs. "What?"

"I said, my _hand_ does not _fit_ in the _glove_ ," Liam says strongly, but doesn't shout.

"Wh—" Harry stops when he catches himself raising his voice, and pouts with a sigh as he turns back around. "Come over here, I can't hear you."

"I _said_ , my _hand_ does not _fit inside_ the **_glove_**!"

"I can't hear you, Liam."

"Are you fucking deaf?!" And next comes a groan. "I'll be there in a moment, hold on!"

Harry just didn't want to scream back and forth with Liam, that's all. Liam in the kitchen, and Harry in the living room— his living room. They made it back to Harry's house just a little while ago.

After Liam paid for both their groceries, he wheeled his cart to Harry's Range Rover in the parking lot and placed his groceries in the trunk. Liam's own groceries would be fine without refrigeration, so he skipped the ride to his own place and joined Harry on the road to his; Liam's car behind Harry's SUV. Once inside, they both got to putting away Harry's groceries before he left to take a shower. Clad in boxer briefs and a Rolling Stones t-shirt, Harry walked back into the kitchen and found Liam hunched over the counter with the highlight kit in his hand. He looked concentrated and a little stressed, squinting down at the strange vocabulary. And at the first sight of Harry, Liam promptly banished him to the living room.

"Oh, we're doing it in my living room?"

"Yeah and I... do not want you blowing my concentration. I'll need peace and quiet reading this shit."

"Am I a distraction?" Harry had said, cocking his hip as he graciously slipped down his underwear to uncover  his ass.

But Liam didn't entertain it. "You're a _pest_. Do you want me to make a mistake?"

"No, no. I'll leave you to it."

Liam appreciated it, relieved to hear the distancing sound of Harry's feet pattering on the floorboard. But Harry only walked away so easily because he wanted Liam to look at his ass hanging out. He didn't have to turn around and check to know that Liam did; a long, concentrated look. So Harry walked along, having taken a kitchen stool with him. Once he propped it in a good spot, he covered up his bottom and took a seat.

And there Harry still sits, patient and quiet. It's been maybe ten minutes since Liam sent him away. And Harry has spent them on a stool, looking out the sliding door in his living room that leads to his backyard garden. The backyard is something of a therapy tool. Harry loves just looking out into it with quiet breathing. It feels relaxing in an elemental way; without thought or enthusiasm. Like he's a dog, or a catatonic old woman in a rocking chair. Enjoying himself with just that view. Probably because Harry's backyard garden is the only part of his house that doesn't dishearten him every time he takes a look.

Harry's house is a desolate, sort of sad place. He only moved in less than two weeks ago, having been staying with his family since he landed in London in early January. But there isn't any more evidence of life in the residence since moving in than there was when it was still unoccupied. Wooden floorboards everywhere— except the living room where plush white carpet covers the ground. In the living room there's a couch with a love seat beside it, a coffee table, and a desk for a television that still has its plastic wrap over it. Harry bought that new last week. The kitchen is more of the same. Only four wooden stools sit in a row against the counter. No other seats in the house, really. Just a mattress in the bedroom. And the toilet seat, if that counts. And then, white walls with dark blue accents. And then... that's it. A barren home.

Every room used to have a goal and a purpose that Harry remembers word for word when he first bought this house. But plans rushed in and Harry didn't have the time to make a nest like he wanted to. What decorations he had, he slowly got to giving away to friends and family as they called on the phone to ask, _Can I have this? It's been sitting in your house for almost a year. Can I have that? You know you don't need it_. And being so far away, Harry got to making a new home, and left this one abandoned. Now Harry just misses what he let go; all those new goals and excited dreams. Something about giving all of it up so easily unsettles him, walking around in the very places they were born. They were such a big, beautiful dreams. They didn't deserve to die that way.

So it's all a little sad. A little depressing. It's why Harry likes going out shopping and visiting art museums and coming home late. This is the two-story spawn of another desertion. The shrouds of Harry's deaths are always embellished with inspiring words of prosperity and progress, and wrapped so pretty he doesn't feel bad watching it disappear under the dirt. This one missed out on any of that glamour. His London home, his London goals; this shroud is just a shroud, holding the dead above ground. Unburied, unmoved. Forgotten.

So that's probably why Harry likes the garden in his backyard so much. Grass, shrubs and flowers; green and lush and overgrown It's the only thing that didn't die. All the flowers bloomed and blossomed while he was away— that's nearly two years. His mother tells him to get a gardener and clean up the whole thing. ' _Not yet_ ,' Harry will say. He enjoys the view just as it is. And now the view just got better. The 10am morning sun just began to shine a ray of pure light down onto the backyard, and now everything is glowing like a 1980's movie's fairy kingdom.

"Alright, here I am," Liam sings as something knocks on the back of Harry's stool, laughing when Harry jumps in his seat. "Sorry. It tipped over."

Harry looks over his shoulder to glare Liam, hand over his distressed heart.  Liam brought over another stool and set down right behind him on the carpet.

"Look." He gives it a few good taps with his hand. "One of your stools. From the kitchen. Gonna use this as my working table."

Harry turns his body a little so he can take a proper look, now curious of what tools Liam speaks of. There's a little black, plastic bowl with some kind of bluish white cream inside. And dipped in that cream is a small, plastic, black brush. "Is that the dye?" Harry asks.

"Yeah."

Harry notices Liam set the instruction paper on the wooden seat protect it from the hair dye. "Clever," he says with the point of his finger.

"Thank you." And Liam places both his hands on Harry's shoulder as he turns him around.

Harry doesn't fight it, suddenly very excited. Like the sudden push that yanks the cart forward when you're sitting on a roller coaster, letting you know the ride has officially begun. "Are you going to start? We're starting?" Harry grins wide.

"That's right."

"Is that all going on my head?" Harry tries to look back, but Liam stops him and lays both his sturdy hands on the sides of Harry's head. Keeping him still.

"Harry, please stop moving. I've got to try and... section your hair."

"Did the instructions say that?"

"Yes, they did."

"Do everything like the instructions say."

Liam gently sways Harry's head side to side and starts to hum, as if to hypnotize him silent and settled down.

"What are you doing?"

"Just... chill. I've got this all under control but... I need peace," Liam says, and drops his hands from Harry's head to his shoulders, giving them a little squeeze before pulling them away.

Soon Harry's feeling Liam's hands touching his hair, and he starts smiling as he feels more excitement bubbling up.

"Oh my God, your hair sooo long now..." Liam whispers in awe, combing his fingers through Harry's hair until it's all held in his hand like a ponytail. And then he lets it go, watching it bounce before running his fingers through it some more. "It's gonna look really nice with highlights," he says while petting Harry's hair, as if to validate his idea.

Liam has always been obsessed with Harry's hair. He was the first to notice it was getting long back in 2014. It was from all that complementing that Harry got to thinking, _Maybe I'll grow it out really long_. Always getting bold ideas when he's drowned in praise. That turned out to be a good idea, one he hasn't regretted for a second. Mermaid hair. Harry's hair is mahogany brown, soft, and dreamy. Loose waves run down the top of his head like a creek water all the way down past his shoulders, where his curls bundled into a thick bouquet.

"It all rests on you, Liam."

"God, I know. Oh! I was gonna— Wait for it."

Suddenly, Harry feels a towel wrapped around the nape of his neck, and then pulled towards the front. "Oh, like Lou does!" They've seen it plenty of times when Lou does Niall's roots. Harry laughs, knowing Liam is really trying hard to do this right.

"Is this towel alright?"

"Yeah, I've got like, four more. Where did you find it?"

"In your bathroom."

"You're really going all the way with this, aren't you?" Harry says, an amused tone as he picks at the towel with his fingers.

"Yep. Giving you the full salon treatment."

The beautiful thing about Liam is that he wants to do everything properly. Neither of them have experience in dying hair, but Harry still finds Liam more qualified than him. Liam also treasures Harry's hair, and that will definitely work towards his favor. It might be why he's being so careful. Harry's excited, beaming with it as he bounces on his stool. He envisions his hair the way he's done since December. Long, flowy, wavy and dimensional, with the most dreamy, beachy highlights.

"Hey, why is there no fucking reception in your house, by the way?" Liam complains abruptly just as he starts sectioning out Harry's hair with his fingers. "I couldn't look up any help for this on my phone."

"Oh, yeah. There's no signal up here."

"I was wondering why you didn't have your phone with you. How do you survive without texting?"

Harry snorts, "Why do you think I'm never home?" That's not the reason. But just in case Liam notices he never _is_ at home, he can think it's over that.

"Wow. You'd go that far."

Harry starts paying attention to what Liam's doing to his head. His fingers crawling through his hair, and pulling on it, and shaking it around. "What the fuck are you doing?" There's a small section of his hair Liam is tugging, and suddenly Harry feels it tied up into a bun. "Did you just tie my hair?"

"I told you, I'm sectioning it."

"Right." Harry remembers. "By the way, what were you saying before? In the kitchen. I didn't year you—"

"Oh! Oh, right! Hold on," Liam says. "You know what, thanks for reminding me. It was in my pocket. Look. So you can see."

And Liam appears up in front of Harry. He pulls up his right hand quickly, wiggling as he tries to squeeze it into a tiny plastic glove that only makes halfway past his hand. "My hand doesn't fit in the glove, I was trying to tell you."

Harry observes the problem quietly.

"My fingers are like, suffocating. I cant even move my hand."

"Try squeezing harder," Harry complains as he watches Liam take off the glove. "The instructions say you need gloves."

"It's not gonna work. What happens if I don't use gloves?"

"I don't know."

"Will my hands turn yellow?"

"It's just harsh chemicals. I think it like, burns your skin if you get it on you."

Liam yanks off the glove. " _Burns?!?_ " And he walks back to his working table; the kitchen stool. Harry turns his head to look at what he's doing. Liam, distraught, stares down at the plastic bowl with the creamy hair dye inside. His brows are fused tightly together as he pinches the brush's handle with his index and thumb finger, poking into the hair dye with newfound horror. "I didn't know that! Lou never said that! What is that, battery acid? How do you put that on your head if it burns?!"

"It doesn't burn your head when it gets on your scalp. It's different because there's hair. Niall's never said it burns."

"I know, so then yeah, it burns your fucking skin everywhere else."

Harry turns his back to Liam, like he's turning his back to the problem. There can't be any problems; no setbacks. Harry feels himself panic a little, desperate for a solution. "Well.... just try to avoid getting it on your hands."

"I need gloves, Harry. Now you've freaked me out! I didn't know this shit could fucking burn me!"

" _You're so negatiive_ ~" Harry whines like a child as he closes his eyes, bringing his thumb and index finger to pinch over the inner corners of his eyes. "Use sandwich bags, Liam. I don't know. Can we move this along?"

"How will that eve—"

And then something small falls to the carpet with the faintest sound.

"Fuck."

Harry quickly turns his head to the ground with a concerned frown, "What?"

"Nothing. The brush fell." And it leaves a tiny dollop of hair dye on the white carpet. Liam bends over to pick up the brush, and he rubs away the hair dye with his socks, watching as it disappears into the carpet. "Oh, look! It's transparent." But moving his leg side to side so quickly, Liam loses his balance with a yelp.

And then there comes a snap. Like hard plastic breaking.

"Ohh my God..."

"What happened?!"

Liam appears before Harry, and ruefully presents him with the accident.

" _Liam!_ "

In the jerk as Liam nearly fell, he tensed and accidentally squeezed the brush in his hand. Snapped it into three pieces. He looks at it in his hand, flustered as he huffs, "But honestly, what is this made of? It broke just like that over nothing! This is so cheap." Liam comes at his own defense, criticizing the brush's weak fabrication.

" _Liaa **aam**_." Harry whines.

"It wasn't my fault! You saw! It was an accident, I'm sorry."

This shouldn't be making Harry upset. It's all too trivial. If he doesn't get his highlights today, he'll get them some other day. Any other day. For the rest of the year. But the dream has come too close for Harry to let it go for another day. Stubborn is what he is. If he was five years old again he'd throw a crying fit until his mother gave him what some other adult wouldn't. Harry has this mastered down to an art form.

"You broke the brush." Looking at the broken, little black brush, Harry feels a headache coming on. No gloves, no brush. He desperately wants Liam to offer a solution. "What are you going to color my hair with now, Liam? Now we can't dye my hair? This was all for nothing?"

Liam spurts his hands on his hips before pursing his lips to ponder, trying to stay in a cartoonishly optimistic mood to keep the situation from becoming serious. "Have you got a brush? Like, a paint brush or something." And then Liam claps his hands together in a revelation before pointing his finger to Harry. " _You_ have art supplies! In your bedroom. I know where your bedroom is."

 _Not that!_ , Harry thinks. He frowns up at Liam as he shakes his head furiously. "No. Absolutely not."

"Do you want highlights or not?"

"You're not using my brushes, Liam. I paint with those."

Liam looks at Harry before breaking the silence with a snort. "You don't paint." And he starts walking away.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Harry turns around in his stool, wide eyed and terribly offended as he helplessly watches Liam walk away in direction towards the kitchen. If he wasn't too lazy to get up and go after him, he wouldn't be so helpless. "Liam, you're not using my fucking paint brushes!" He cries out in a bratty little whine as he turns back around to look out the sliding door.

"I just got a tattoo on my hand I'm not burning the fucking skin off with hair dye!"

And then Harry's face softens, he snaps his head back and yells out, "Wait, wait! Wait!"

Liam stops halfway into the kitchen, nearly at the stairs that lead to Harry's bedroom on the second floor. He turns around with a sigh that Harry's too far away to hear.

"You got a new tattoo?"

Liam pauses, cocking his head. "I didn't tell you?" His voice is tiny, tiny tiny; so far away.

"No! Come here, let me see." And as Harry watches as Liam starts making his way back to the living room, and he turns back around in his chair, anticipating his appearance.

"Could've fucking sworn I told you..." Liam says just as he comes into view, walking until he's right in front of Harry with his hands behind his back.

"Which one?" Harry reaches out and tries to grab Liam's arm with no success.

"Are you glued to that chair?" he laughs.

"Let me see."

"Hold on, mate, you _seriously_ didn't notice?" Liam sounds hurt. "My _hand_ tattoo? My hand, which was..." and then Liam lifts up his left, freshly tattooed hand as he waves it around, blurring the image too much for Harry to make out before continuing, "just, in clear view right before your very eyes?"

"I'm blind," Harry confesses mockingly as he pulls on Liam's hoodie to yank him closer.

"Wait, stop that! I'll show you."

With that, Harry loosens his grasp, letting Liam walk over and bend forward to present Harry with his left hand, covered in a brand new tattoo. Head down, Harry puts his right hand under Liam's wrist as a prop and uses his left hand to lightly tap over the inked skin with his fingertips. "Roses," he says quietly. A bouquet of three roses, inked in a soft, smoky shades of black and gray all over Liam's hand and over his knuckles. The skin looks healed enough, letting Harry know it was done some time ago. "Oh, it's really pretty. I like it a lot."

"Notice anything?"

Harry turns his head up at Liam to give him a puzzled look, and then turns his gaze back down at Liam's hand again. "What?" He looks for a name, a secret face, a secret shape. But Harry is surprised when Liam reaches over and taps his left elbow. He looks down to where Liam keeps his finger, pressed against Harry's own rose tattoo. "What about i— _Oh!_ " Harry snaps his head back to Liam's hand. " _Oh!_ You're a filthy copycat!" And they both begin to laugh.

Because Liam's three roses are all soft, delicate gray shadows in hyperrealism— just like Harry's big rose tattoo on his arm. The left one, too.

"You matched your rose tattoo with mine?" Harry's grinning wide, stretching out his arm and pulling Liam's hand over so they're side by side. "Look at that."

"And look. Here."

Harry feels Liam's other hand beside his right arm to match up two other tattoos. "Yeah, the eagles." Thick, black and traditional— both of them. Although, Liam's is semi-realistic. Harry's is on the inside of his right forearm, and Liam's is on his right hand.

"Alright, both of them now." Both of Harry's arms are outstretched now as Liam lines up both his hands beside their matching tattoos. He cackles, delighted they fit so perfectly.

But they're joking about the matching part. When Liam found out on Twitter that there was a brand new eagle tattoo on the right side of Harry's arm, Harry got a text calling him a copycat. He acted surprised, like he forgot Liam even had an eagle. Liam insisted he was lying for a while, letting that go on as a joke before they got to accepting it as coincidence. This time is more of the same, tables turned. Now it's Liam's turn to deny he wanted it to match, same as Harry did with the eagles. "This is so fucking funny, oh my God." But Liam isn't about to play along. Harry doesn't know the truth yet.

"I actually did get this one to match, though," he pokes Harry's rose as he pulls back his right arm to fall at his side again. "For real."

Harry folds back his own right arm against his belly, playing with the fabric of his t-shirt. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"I mean I got my roses to match yours on purpose."

Harry pauses, dimples beginning to crease as a confused, cautious smile creeps across his lips. "You're joking."

"Dead serious, man," Liam assures him.

And now Harry's giggling, his eyes squinting up as he grabs Liam's hand again to inspect his roses. He tells himself he doesn't believe it, because then that would mean too much to him. And he'd feel stupid for jumping there, jumping so far to that conclusion in his own head. So he stays grinning, crinkling his nose with another laugh when he feels himself getting emotional. "What the fuck! Why?!"

"You're the one always going on about matching tattoos." Liam's voice is soft, low and quiet. And Harry almost hates it, knowing it'll make everything he say sound sweeter. "And you know, Zayn's sort of run off with his screw tattoo so... I thought I'd give you a new one. One that at least _I'll_ acknowledge since you don't wanna admit you got that eagle to match mine on purpose! That drives me mad!"

Another perfect dodge as Liam figures Harry out once again. He just knows Harry so well. Because Harry really did get the eagle to match Liam's. But waking up to it in the morning, that was somehow too embarrassing to brag about like he thought he would want to. Like he'd done too much. It was nerve-wrecking getting that first text. Only after about an hour did Harry get to replying. What eagle tattoo? Biting his nails as he held his phone, reading Liam's text about not believing him. But he insisted and insisted, pressed and pressed like the stubborn boy he is. And he got to thinking that Liam believed him in the end. His face goes red, realizing he never did.

"I still don't believe you. But I'll admit this one. I know it doesn't... really count since I just got it to match yours but." And he laughs, nervous. "We probably won't be walking into a parlor together since you're always away. But that's cool, it's fine. You do you because... this fella's staying right here no matter what. And yours right there. " No, that's making Harry sad. He scratches the side of his nose, still smiling like that's the only thing keeping him from crying. He hates crying, getting emotional. And he figures Liam knows that, too. Just like he knows matching tattoos are that thing no one ever wants to get with Harry. The flighty one. The one that disappears. The one that probably got over you, so you might as well delete him from your contacts. Why get a matching tattoo with him? Why make any kind of commitment to him, when he can't commit to anything but himself?

That would be the common notion, wouldn't it? By now, it's the belief that everyone Harry knows got to keeping, and the one everyone he would get to knowing would keep, too. The spill that stuck to the fabric of your favorite shirt and stained forever. Because it would come out easily, you thought, and left it sitting in the laundry room for too long. He doesn't know when that happened. Because he doesn't think that to be true one bit.

Harry needs space. He gets overwhelmed; comes so close to the breaking point that sometimes he needs to disappear to keep from shattering to pieces. But he needs to make a new friend along the way because he just can't fucking _stand_ to be alone. Make friends with the bartender— does he know who he is? Go over to Ben's father's place. That'll be perfect. Live in the attic for a while. Move away somewhere else for a while. See some new faces who don't know his problems, who don't know he's weak, who don't know he's two public opinions away from breaking down completely— they can't tell that when he's at a dinner party, laughing at a stranger's bad joke as all their friends laugh. They ignore Harry just fine, and talk to him as the friend of a friend of a friend who knows the party host's brother. No music, no meetings, no money. Stay in the basics, converse as strangers. And that'll work for Harry while he needs it. Stranger to stranger, build up a little acquaintance and then he's fine. He's good.

And he comes back, he promises. Harry can't understand why people stopped believing him. When they got so impatient. When they got to being fine with never seeing him again.

And here's Liam, big, fat tattoo on his hand to match with Harry's for everyone to see to say, _I'll still be right here for you when you come back from wherever you go, for however long_. And Harry can't understand why he would do that. Because that might make him the only one, Harry thinks. By now, he thinks the world is fine with never seeing Harry Styles again, and he thinks he might be coming to terms with that. When it isn't true. And Liam wants him to know. From his part, he can promise. And he promises with three, pretty roses in permanent ink, forever on his skin until the day he dies.

And here comes the crying. Now Harry's going cry. He brings his hand to wipe his face so fast, sniffing and taking a deep breath because he's stubborn, and he refuses to cry. So his eyes just get red and wet, leaking down his cheeks as he quickly wipes it away again and again with a relaxed face.

"Aw," he says, like it's nothing. Like it's a friendship bracelet, a little card. "That's sweet," he chuckles, sniffing as he brings his hand up to wipe his face. Liam puts his hand over Harry's shoulder to rub it, and now Harry has to stay looking down. "I um... I love that a lot, actually..." He bites his bottom lip, breathing hard through his nose until he's sure his voice won't crack when he talks again. "Thanks, Liam." It still does.

And then Liam moves his hand to Harry's chin, and turns his head up. Embarrassed, Harry blinks his gaze away over at the wall. He takes a deep breath, before making himself look at Liam in what he knows to be a bad idea. So embarrassing, but he does it anyway.

"You're all red. Now you're really an English rose," Liam jokes with laugh, like Harry really isn't crying and nothing serious at all is really going on. Because he knows that's what would make his younger, long-haired buddy feel better. Who can be so small and fragile sometimes. For the solid tree Harry seems to be, rose petals is all he is. It's why Liam picked the rose tattoo to match.

Harry can't stand to keep his eyes open anymore and he just closes them, head throbbing as the crying fit he holds back knock around in his head with nowhere to go. Liam pinches both ends of the towel around Harry's neck, which had begun to slide down his back. He pulls down, snuggling Harry's neck with the dark blue towel. And then Harry feels a little kiss to his forehead. Next his nose. And then his lips. Little pecks.

"Now, I am going to get myself one of your brushes."

Harry feels Liam cupping his cheek, petting it.

"Whether you like. it. or. not."

And then come four little slaps to his face as Harry lets out a little laugh.

"And in forty minutes, you'll have highlights, Haz!"

The sound of footsteps appear as Liam walks out of the carpeted living room and into the rest of the wooden-floored kitchen. And then they begin to fade out as Liam walks away. Harry opens his eyes, turning his body in his wooden stool so he can take a look at Liam walking away. He makes it halfway out of the kitchen before he stops. Like a sixth sense calling. And then he looks back, at Harry. Just one moment passes, and then Liam smiles as he gives Harry a thumbs up. Harry gives him one back with a giggle. And satisfied, Liam turns around, back on his way.


	3. The Sofa

Twelve is the number of times Harry has asked Liam if his hair has started to change color yet. Ten is the number of times Liam has told Harry that he can't tell with all the hair dye over it. Four is number of times Liam has complained about the harsh smell of hair dye. Five is number of the times Harry has. Two is the number of times Liam has marveled over the length of Harry's hair. Two is the number of times Liam has commented over his improving skills. Twelve is the minutes Liam has spent carefully brushing hair dye into Harry's hair. And seven is the number of times dye has dripped down onto the carpet.

To both Liam and Harry's surprise, every drop of transparent dye that fell onto the carpet became a richer shade of yellow with every passing minute. ' _Looks like someone's dribbled piss onto the carpet_ ,' Harry mumbled, indifferent to the stains. That first stain of hair dye that Liam rubbed away with his foot became a yellow gradient, as did the bottom of his sock— Liam wasn't very indifferent to that. The rest of the stains on the carpet aren't as far along, but are surely changing color. It's all from the brush— the big, flat paint brush Liam took from Harry's room— that keeps falling. When Liam's done applying all the dye to one section of Harry's hair, he'll turn to the black, plastic bowl on the stool to dip the brush again with fresh a fresh dollop. And it's usually right after that that it falls. It's very tricky for Liam to hold the brush with two sandwich bags on his hands. The dark blue towel around Harry's neck became spotted with lighter shades of blue as the bleach did its work on the fabric. When he realized that, Liam stepped back a good two feet to outstretch his arms for the brushing; protecting his clothes. The highlighting process has proved to be a messy job.

Having millions of female fans means Liam's seen many a head of pretty hair. So he has an idea of what Harry's beachy highlights ought to look like. But without access to the internet in Harry's house, Liam had to go skimming through the archives of his memory for guidance on the actual execution. And those memories go back to their last tour when Lottie, Louis's little sister, joined their crew as Lou's apprentice. There was only so much the ladies could do with three heads of short hair(Harry wouldn't let either of them touch his), so to entertain themselves on tour they often did each other's makeup hair, and talked on about the latest beauty trends. The group's last tour went on for nearly a year. That's a lot of conversations about hair and makeup Liam eavesdropped on.

So when Liam, brush in hand, quickly dug in his brain for fragmented memories of highlighting hair, he remembered three things: sectioning out hair, ' _God, I hate those big like, solid chunks of highlights. It's so fucking ugly. Because you have to fan out the dye to make it look nice. You can't just, use globs on one piece. Dye goes on the bottom to the top in a shadow— it's common fucking sense_ ,' and the use of aluminum foil.

Lou used clips for secure each section of hair, but Harry had no such clips. Instead, Liam got rubber bands. He sectioned Harry's hair out into four squares before trying them all in buns.

"You look like that lady who sings weird. With the buns. What's her name?" Liam had giggled foolishly just after tying up all of Harry's hair. "Bork? Berk? Bayerk?"

"Björk."

"Björk! She's crazy. She wore a swan dress one time. I bet you'd wear a swan suit."

And going section by section, Liam has let loose one bun at a time to pull out piece after piece of hair to brush in hair dye. And afterwards, pockets each finished layer of hair in a sheet of aluminum foil before moving onto the next piece of hair, and eventually the next section of hair kept in a bun. That's how Liam's been doing it.

Confidence grows with practice. And twelve minutes in, Liam is moderately merry highlighting Harry's hair. Rubber bands, sandwich bags, boxed hair dye and a painting brush — the makeshift tools of a millionaire popstar turned DIY hairdresser. They're nearly finished with the whole thing. And Liam is having a good, fun time. He feels crafty and relaxed, letting out a hum and a jiggy every so often. Especially since Harry has been completely quiet. Liam thanked him for being considerate.

But really, Harry has just tuned out his brain to a static channel to numb his anxiety. Because his mind definitely ran wild at some point, and like a buckwild stallion it got into trouble and hurt itself. Harry can really spoil his own fun, sometimes.

The risk of this all going wrong grows bigger, hovering closer down Harry's head with every passing minute. He's thought about telling Liam to stop four times already— that he changed his mind and wants to stop— but it hasn't happened. Maybe his own stubbornness plays into that, or maybe he feels bad about having made Liam go through all this trouble just to call it all off. The worst case scenarios would be that Harry comes out with fried, platinum hair all over his head, or that he gets exactly what he wanted but decides he doesn't like it. Having the same worries swimming in circles in his head has made Harry nauseous. The thought of dyeing his hair brown again brings him comfort every once in a while. Until he starts to think about his hair falling out in thin wisps from the chemical damage; his receding hairline slipping down the back of his head like a silk cloth to reveal a shiny, smooth patch of skin at the top of his skull. _Bald_. Harry Styles is _B A L D_.

"Liam, are you almost done?" Harry chokes with a worried pout, nostrils flared.

"Why? You miss your phone?"

If Harry weren't getting his hair done, he would have already left the house and gone to a restaurant just to use his phone. Not having his phone— that, too, does bother him a little. But he lets out an offended scoff anyway.

"I'm like, two... no, okay— All this," The sandwich bags crinkle loudly as Liam grabs a section of Harry's hair, starting from the lower half of his head down to the base of his neck, "is what's left. The rest is done." Liam satisfies Harry with the update. He's brushing dye into the very bottom layer of Harry's hair, the one at the nape of his neck. Starting from the tips, Liam brushes on dye with light, upwards strokes. Hardly any brush on the dye, either. Liam hopes it will have the effect he's guessed it will.

"I'm going to cry."

"What?!" Liam laughs, half concerned. "Why would you cry?! ...Is it from joy?" He mumbles, half hopeful Harry is impressed with his skill.

"No, I've been thinking about going bald for the past twenty—"

"Thirteen—"

"— fifteen minutes and I'm very anxious and this is causing me a lot of stress."

"But you'll look great, mate. Don't you trust me?"

" _I don't trust a damn thing in this world_ ," Harry saturates in melodrama with the low drop of his voice, bringing both hands to rub over his eyes. The image of his bald head comes back to him. Glimmering in the sun, glazed like a polished car. He rubs his face with his palms, pulling up and down, and then over his eyes, as if that will make the image go away. " _Prepare yourself for the absolute worst at all times._ "

"You're so dramatic, Jesus Christ," Liam mutters, ripping out a piece of aluminum to fold over a finished section of hair.

"I have such delicate hair, Liam. I could go blonde and then it all falls off, just like that."

"Lou isn't bald and her hair was like, toddler thin before she got to dyeing it. And she dyed it white, not blonde. He hair hasn't fallen out. And neither has Lottie's." The aluminum seals off the section dyed hair. Done. Now Liam moves onto another piece of hair, pulling it out and laying it flat on his sandwich-bagged hand before he starts brushing on dye to the tips.

"Everyone's hair is different."

"Your sister! What about Gemma? She's dyed it loads of colors and her hair is fine. You both have got the same genetics."

Liam makes a good point for someone who knows nothing about hair— and who also has no hair himself. Liam shaved his head a few days ago because he couldn't deal with the natural curly texture of his hair. Lou always worked with it to make it nice and straight. She can do a good job on a certain occasion, should God feel willing to intervene.

"You know, this is all so relaxing. This reminds me of art class in elementary school when you would like, use the little paints with a brush and paint on construction paper."

Harry tries to be positive, and adds to the conversation. "Yeah. That's why I like painting. I love painting it's like... it just feels so nice, you know? Like, the stroke of the brush with the paint."

"What sort of things do you paint?"

"Uh..." And Harry laughs, "Abstracts. It's the only thing I can get away with."

It hasn't even been a year since he started painting. Or, attempting to. Harry picked up an interest in the arts, growing inside him like a seed waiting for the harvest. He visited art museums, marveling over the works of Van Gogh and Basquiat. And he thought to himself, simply: I'd like to be a painter. Mostly for the aesthetics. Harry didn't want to paint, he wanted to be a _painter_. Cultured, cool, strange and broody. So Harry invested in the dream. He figured £328.03 in painting supplies was a good first step.

But once he had a brush in hand and an empty canvas before him, he realized he had no vision. That hasn't stopped him from getting his paint brushes dirty. It's the most relaxing, beautiful experience until Harry takes a look at his work the next day. The mess of colors and childish shapes would send any artist into a laughing fit. Harry painting is a mistake, a negligence; like throwing stones in a blender. _'Please, stop. Don't do that again.'_ More garbage than Gogh. But the average house guest can't tell the difference. Harry can, though; shaking his head violently when his mother tells him he's a prodigy with an overjoyed grin on her face. 

"Do a portrait of me."

Harry chortles, "I don't paint objects. I just do colors."

"Paint me in black. Paint me in like, some crazy shapes! A black... void. I want to be a black void. Like space. Could I see your paintings later?"

" _No_. No. Like, all I do is colors and just... make a bloody mess, honestly."

"We all start somewhere," Liam says as he rips out another piece of aluminum foil, folding it over the section of hair he finished dyeing.

Harry laughs, "I'm not a very good painter, Liam."

"You don't have to be good at something to like doing it! That's all I'm saying. I'm not going to beauty school after this but... you know, I think... you could, like, call me up for some touch ups. I think it'd be fun."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes!"

"You really like dyeing hair, mate?" Harry asks with a giggle, wishing he could turn around to look at Liam. But he knows that would ruin his work.

"I'll admit it. No shame."

"That's cool."

"Anyway, guess what?"

"What?"

"I've finished."

"With my hair?" Harry realizes Liam's hands aren't in his hair so he foolishly turns himself around as if to have a look at the job done. What's to see isn't there. His eyes look over to Liam instead, who takes off the sandwich bags from his hands and drops them on the wooden stool he's used as his working table. "Really?"

"Yep."

"Did it change color?"

" _No_ , for the millionth time." Now Liam holds his hands over his face, inspecting for stains or burns, his brow furrowed lightly. "Wanna head over into the bathroom to take a look? At all the aluminum foil on your head? It looks like you've got like, aluminum foil for hair." He thinks it looks funny.

And Harry knows. "Oh God, no." It's like the gloom drops back down on him. He can feel it; back to worrying, back to frowning. He turns back around in his stool, bringing up his hands to fumble with the towel around his neck. "Can I put my towel on my head? Or is it gonna mess up my hair?"

"Why do you want the towel on your head?"

"Because I wanna have dignity."

"Aw, you're not one to be so insecure." Liam walks up from behind Harry, hands on his hips as he steps in front of him to give him a good look. He mostly admires his work, but then tries to offer consolation. A good 63% of Harry's hair is pocketed in long sheets of aluminum foil. What little hair left is left untouched from dye makes it look like that's all the human hair Harry managed to grow on his generously sized, futuristic looking head. "It doesn't look... bad."

"Okay 'it doesn't look, _pause_ , bad' means it looks bad."

"It's not a big deal, Harry."

"I'd like to wear the towel."

"Uh... well." Now Liam has to brainstorm; analyze the situation so he can birth a solution. He takes a step forward and reaches his hand to Harry's head, poking at the two inch wide aluminum sheets hanging down. He pulls on them to see if they'll slip, and they do. They could all come off if Harry were to pull them in any way. "Right... so then... hm..." he mumbles to himself. Harry starts poking Liam's groin; bored and in a bad enough mood to be mischievous. He smiles when Liam starts to wiggle and whine. " _Stop_ ~"

Something begins to crinkle at the top of Harry's head, and he digs his finger into Liam's crotch to be annoying. "What are you doing?" Like a child; bratty and impossible.

"Why the fuck— stop that! Harry!"

" _What are you doing_." It's not a question, just a grumbled whine followed by another poke to Liam's dick.

"I'm rolling up the aluminum foil."

"Why?"

"So it doesn't slip off." Liam slaps away Harry's hand, exasperated. "And so you can put your stupid fucking towel on your big, evil head."

"That's so rude, Liam. My head is great."

"Be still."

Liam tries to be speedy, rolling up the aluminum foil until it touches Harry's scalp and then pressing down to flatten it securely. It's a challenging maneuver when he's trying to dodge Harry's attacks. When he finishes, hands finally free, he slaps Harry's hands away before stepping back.

"You are _annoying_!" Liam pats over his somewhat achey dick. "That fucking hurts, you know!"

Harry is already leaning forward, head hanging down as he wraps the towel on his head. That job is done quickly, and Harry sits back up in his stool with the towel perfectly wrapped around his head. And then, he sighs deeply, slumped in his chair with eyes closed. This hasn't been the exciting adventure he thought it would be. And he takes a moment to think. It's a pity he's become so regretful. And he blames himself for that, thinking he should be more optimistic, and less of a worrying, whiny old man. He's glad this part is over, looking forward to getting out of this hard, wooden stool, at least.

"Oh, you did the towel hat thing," Liam says as he reaches his hand out to poke the towel beehive.

A spell broken: Harry stands up from the stool. But immediately, he knits his brow together with a hiss as he puts a hand to his ass. "Ow..." Sore like it's flattened out; like the muscles merged together into one large, tight, inflexible mound.

"You want me to massage it?" Liam bends his outstretched fingers to make grabby hands, watching Harry knead his ass as he clumsily makes his way to the couch.

There's a soft thump when he takes a seat on the sofa. He starts off sitting up, then reclining, then leaned on his side, until finally Harry is comfortable lying down on his back with a couch pillow under his head. The aluminum foil crinkles under the towel and against his skull somewhat uncomfortably, somewhat unbearably. _What can you do_ , Harry thinks, feeling resigned despite having done nothing to resign from.

But what has he done, really? Harry hasn't done anything today— from paying for groceries, to dying his hair. That's another thing to bother him. Nothing has happened, and Harry managed to ruin that, ready to give up and recover from a completely imaginary ordeal. This was all supposed to be a _surely_ good thing. But the prospect of failure plagued Harry, and now he's exhausted himself. Like collapsing on the floor after one push up when you planned on doing two sets of five. Real motivated. You thought you could do it.

 _I wasn't always like this_ , Harry thinks as he shuts his eyes real tight, real tight.

And then he stops thinking.

That's as far as he can let himself go. He's reached his limit for now. If he drives any further he'll fall down a hole. Harry just stops himself, tunes out. Lets his head buzz with static again.

"Move."

Harry opens his eyes and sees Liam standing in front of the couch, right by his feet. "What?"

But Liam shakes his head with shrug as if to say, _Forget it_. He lifts Harry's legs up from the couch like a gate, taking a seat before setting them back down across his lap. "Was telling you to move, but... I knew you'd just tell me to do it."

Harry starts to laugh, somewhat embarrassed because he thinks, Liam really is doing everything for him today. "I'm lazy today." Lazy isn't the word— not even close. But he'll use it.

"You're lazy today," Liam puts his left arm over Harry's bare thighs like if it were an arm rest. Harry likes it, feeling at ease with Liam's big, warm arm over his skin. "By the way I set up a timer on my phone. It's twenty-five minutes until you wash your hair."

"Okay."

They're quiet. They'll be quiet. Harry's looking out the sliding door, now. Out into the backyard. The Earth moved and now the sun shines on another part of the world. Not Harry's garden. That bright ray of light is gone, and clouds must have moved in to make the whole view so dingy and grey. _Nice_ , Harry thinks with sandpapery sarcasm and an unconscious frown. Still looking out with melancholy. And he can't believe he's feeling this way.

_What the fuck did I do? What time is it even? What am I doing... What's happening..._

"How are you, Harry?" Liam asks in a light tone, like if they ran into each other.

"I'm alright." Harry tries to look at Liam without lifting his head, but finds that he can't see him at all. He turns his head back to the left, disappointed with the view all over again.

"Nice. How are you holding up?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean with everything and just all of... this. You know, the break and all that stuff. Whatever else. You alright?"

Truthfully, probably not at all. Failing very much, much too much. "Yeah. I'm good." Harry is mumbling softly and lightly, in hopes that Liam won't worry.

"I just worry about you sometimes, is all. Just wanna make sure about you. You don't really ever talk about what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

"No, yeah yeah. I know. I was just saying."

Harry licks his lips. Because there's something there, on the tip of his tongue. He could swallow it down; the usual. But Harry lets a squeak of it come out, instead. Without a thought, of course. Just blowing out steam from the surface. "I think... maybe it's just... maybe frustrating that... you're still trying to get used to it. You can't do anything without having a malfunction or feeling weird. Like, none of this feels normal yet. That's frustrating. Because we really haven't been gone for very long like, at all. Honestly." Harry uses 'you' because he doesn't want to feel like he's really talking about his emotions. He doesn't want it.

"Yeah. It is actually quite annoying, I guess, to feel that you, like, got further away from all of this than you thought. Nothing wrong with getting used to things, though."

"Shouldn't have to get used to it. It's like I'm trying to remember these memories that feel... lost. Like I have amnesia. Everything is different, I'm different. That's not fair." That's enough, Harry decides.

"Memories do always come back. And like you said, it's only been a few years. We're a month in, mate. That's... 1/12 of this break! Just be patient. You'll have your bad days, your good days. You know, the highlights."

"The highlights."

"Yeah. Like... dimensions." Liam just wiggles his fingers, struggling through his limited vocabulary. "Experiences just change, you know. All the fucking time."

"Yeah. You're right," Harry sighs.

"You talked to any of the other lads? I mean about how you feel... probably n-"

"Not."

They both laugh. Liam more bittersweetly.

"You like that, yeah?" Harry says, tucking his arm behind his towel-wrapped head so he's able to look at Liam. Chin doubled; it's cute.

"Well..."

"Feeling all special."

Liam stays looking at Harry, head resting against the back of the sofa. "I do love hearing about how you feel. Not gonna lie."

"What, think you're the chosen one?"

Liam knits his brow together and shakes his head with a smile. Harry's just joking, but Liam feels a need to clear it up. "It's not like that. You just hold back a lot and worry a lot. And it's nice to like... hear you open up. You never do."

"I'm not one to be soppy."

"But you're not some stone cold bitch. You are very much a sensitive, dramatic and paranoid little creature. And you're very complex."

"I can manage on my own. You don't have to worry about me."

"Everyone needs some help once in a while. You worry so much. And you're so whiny and dramatic about the smallest things. Is this what it's always like for everything?"

Harry doesn't know how Liam got to asking so many deep questions. It feels like fishing, and Liam keeps hoping Harry will take the bait and spill all of his secrets. That sounds bad, but Harry knows he means well by it. And it isn't often that he goes fishing like this. But it's like sometimes he tries his luck. Tries to catch the big fish.

"I suppose I worry... quite a bit. I don't know." But he does know. "My mind is just always on the go. Always uh... always cooking."

"That's what goes on in your head when you're just staring into deep space not saying anything? What is that?"

"Jeez Louise." Harry moves his arm away from the back of his head and rests it on the pillow, again. And he closes his eyes. "I don't know. I'm not thinking."

"You are. You just don't want to tell me."

"Fuck. You're pushy today, aren't you?" Harry keeps his tone light.

"Why don't you just talk about it? I don't pry to be nosy, you know. You'd feel like, so much better if you talked about it at least just once."

"Not everybody does..."

Liam and Harry are complete opposites that way. Harry has trouble letting his emotions out, and Liam has trouble keeping them all in. To hold back everything all the time is a nearly frightening concept to Liam. Because to him, that's like being smothered in a pillow. Liam finds comfort in stirring a pot of emotions, throwing in the ones of everyone he cares about; just knowing how everyone is, feeling what they feel. And despite knowing it isn't the case for Harry, it's a bad feeling he can't shake off. Like watching a double jointed person pop their shoulders and knees out of place. ' _Doesn't that hurt?!_ ' you can't help but always wonder with a worried frown, no matter how many times you've seen it done.

Harry hears Liam sigh. He thinks he might just be noticing how Liam has been touching up his thigh, close to his knee. Or maybe Liam just started doing that. Harry hasn't been paying attention, his words free falling out of his mouth. Liam understands, as he always has. But he can't help but ramble for a moment. Just let some of himself out.

"No, you are right. You are right. You know I understand how you work. I get it. I get you. You know that."

"Yeah."

"I just— I-I hope you really are alright keeping it all inside. You worry me a lot sometimes, mate. You act so weird about things, and you don't say anything sometimes. I love when you get like, whiny and annoying because at least you're not holding back. And you're just letting loose, even if it is just to be a pain in the ass," Liam smiles, eyes to the carpet. "You hold in so much and you... hold back and like, mold yourself so much and I know you worry. Yeah? You worry."

"Yeah."

"About everything."

Harry can't argue.

"I think about that more and more, just how much you worry and get stressed and dramatic. Especially now that we're on this break. And I think like, if he gets like this over something small, is he alright about the bigger stuff. You know? Does he want help and is just... holding that back too? You're like a cat, Harry. You know that cats, when they're injured, they hide and they stay quiet so other animals don't know they're weak and vulnerable. It's because they're afraid something might come to kill them. I feel like you're like that, I swear. I can't see you hiding. I just know you are. But I don't know if you've got a scratch or a broken leg. And I just worry, I suppose. That you're okay and happy. I'm sorry I made you cry earlier, by the way. I know you hate that."

If Harry could blast off the couch, shoot up into space and fly straight into a black hole he would. He isn't letting the emotions come through so he only feels the symptoms. The headache, the racing heart of his adrenaline. Like a panic attack, like he's gonna die. Maybe he is the cat hiding under the car with the gnawed off leg, and maybe Liam is the dog barking loud and trying to crawl over because he wants a sniff. But that's so mean of Harry to think, that Liam's some mutt making noise when he's just trying to help. And he feels even worse for that, for knowing there's truth to the somber poetry of being a frightened, wounded animal that hides a way in fear. Fear of everything. He wonders when the higher, evolved species will grab him by the scruff and send him to a hospital. An unwanted salvation. There isn't a heaven anyone can really give Harry— not one that he could ever want. Always so fickle-minded and demanding, he has been. He yearns for a heaven so vague and capricious there's no recognizing if it ever manifested. And so, maybe there's no real saving him. There's no real satisfaction, no real heaven. 

_Why the fuck am I thinking like this?_ Harry feels ridiculous. Millionaire with hair dye, aluminum foil and a towel on his head, lying down on a couch in a mansion in a high-class city— how he manages to prompt mini catastrophes inside himself at all times is embarrassing. He shouldn't run into sorrow like this at every passing corner. He's a brand new Bugatti crashing into fire hydrants and light posts when he should be working just fine, better than fine. Happy all the time. _Get it together. Shut the fuck up._ Harry shuts his eyes tight, taking a deep breath before letting it go slow. Zapping at his hysterical brain with lightning shocks until he fries it dead and incapable of causing him grief. He wants his breathing to slow down. He wants his fingers to stop shaking.

"Hey."

There's a boop to Harry's nose and he opens his eyes, brow furrowed. Liam leaned his body forward until his head reached Harry's chest, propped up with his hands on what little couch space was left. Harry sighs as he lifts his head to look down at him. " _What?_ " That was harsh and he regrets it, so he drops his head back down on the pillow and looks away with softened, sorry eyes. Now he feels worse and wants to resent Liam for it, awful as he knows he is for it. It's unconscious, it isn't real. He doesn't mean it. He isn't a bad person. "What is it, Liam?"

Liam crawls up, most of his weight now rested on top of Harry, and Harry turns his head up so their faces align. Liam smiles as he looks down, and says sweetly, "You look so cute in your towel hat and your little underwear and t-shirt."

That's usually the kind of thing Liam is cautious not to say, and defensive of if it comes out. Harry could swim round and round his thoughts about that if his head wasn't out of service. But then suddenly Liam turns his head away, up at the white walls boxing in the living room. Harry can only see the bottom of his neck now. Liam moves up one of his hands until it's beside Harry's head, and he starts blindly playing with the towel hat; picking at the fabric and pinching the loose corners. He turns his head back down a little, gaze quickly going to the towel. But his eyes are unfocused, blind— propped to point, not actually looking at anything in front of him. His eyebrows quiver softly like he's thinking a lot, thinking so heavy he trembles under the weight. And Harry just stays looking up at him, feeling disoriented as he watches how Liam's expression changes like a temperature drop. Harry can read him so easily. It almost bothers him. And then Liam looks back down at into Harry's eyes with a new face, a grayer one. Not a prop. This time he sees for real.

"Is it my fault?"

It's like Liam changed his mind at last minute, and didn't want to go through with his deflecting; the band aid. Because he wants to know: does that mean he hurt Harry? He hurt him. He did something wrong. It's what's really on Liam's mind. He looks at Harry with a deep, worried gaze. A sorry one. Whimpering dog, backing up from under the car with his tail between his legs. "Is what your fault?" Harry likes feeling Liam on top of him. He puts his hands in the pockets of Liam's hoodie.

"I pushed too hard. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Harry can't analyze it, because he can't deal with it. This— this disaster— it'll escalate if Harry so much as touches it. So he just looks at Liam. At his deep brown eyes and soft, plump lips. He wonders if Liam is thinking the same about his own green eyes, his own pink lips. Harry hopes he is. What a loose thought to slip by into in the empty, evacuated space in his head. And then Harry asks, 

"Can I have a kiss?"

Liam's expression doesn't change. Still focused, gaze still shifting between Harry's eyes and his lips. They're mirroring each other. So then, Harry isn't surprised when Liam leans down for a little peck to his lips. There's a good fluttering in his chest that comes just right then. But it's gone once Liam pulls back, face distant from Harry's again.

"Again?"

Liam can't help but smile, unsure but excited. Harry finds himself softening his expression, trying to look pretty. He brings out his hands from the pockets of Liam's hoodie and he places them on his lower back, pulling his hips down until their groins are pressed together. Somewhat unsure, Liam lowers himself down again and presses a longer, single kiss to Harry's lips. He moves his lips gently, tilting his head. Harry feels Liam's hips grinding down just a little onto him. And there's the fluttering in his chest again. But this time when Liam pulls back from Harry's lips he doesn't pull back all the way. Not even halfway. His lips ghost over Harry's, confused and eager. Eager for anything, eager for Harry to ask for

"More. Please?"


	4. The Sofa Pt. 2

The human eye is drawn to the salience of the image it sees. That happens when one or more of its features is significantly different from what surrounds it. It's a matter of contrasting. Things only stand out as much as everything around it doesn't. Stars only shine bright on the darkest nights. They might as well not exist during the day.

Maybe Harry has to make his sun set to know what it's like to dream again. Everything's a blur when it's so bright, so up high where he is. You can't tell apart the bad from the good when they're two different shades of white. So then, nothing makes sense. Harry ends up blindsided by his own emotions. Sadness might as well be a wolf in sheep's skin without so much as the mercy to unmask before taking a bite. And so all Harry can do is tend to the wound as he fears the next attack. Anything that isn't primary or superficial or elementary, Harry will aggressively ignore. The objective is: bliss. But the truth is: the happiest moments come right after the bad. Nothing will ever make sense otherwise. Light contrasting with dark; highlights— that's how it works. Harry doesn't understand that.

But it's why he finds himself sighing with relief, Liam's weight on top of him as they kiss hard and slow. Towel on his head, sofa cushions to his right, Liam on top— Harry feels completely cocooned; safe in the wake of an aborted disaster. And it couldn't feel better. He can't tilt his head without worrying about his towel coming undone with all the shuffling, so Liam does most of the angling. He takes the lead for Harry, though lacks grace in his apprehension; shifting often and pausing before picking up again. They kiss deep but not too hard, one-upping each other playfully with affection until Harry gropes between Liam's legs and he wins, victorious as he holds his big, hard prize in his hand. He can feel the outline of Liam's dick through his jeans already with just a few more squeezes. Not so playful; no more games. Now Liam is grinding down, letting go some of that apprehension to indulge in audacity. Evidently, a much more passionate man, now. His kisses seem to be deeper, maybe even slower. Harry smiles against Liam's lips when he feels his hands go up his shirt.

This is the Liam he likes best. The little laugh that comes from him when he buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck says he's both proud and abashed, face going red as he starts kissing again. Maybe this is a relief for him, too; thrusting his hips against Harry's, kissing the soft, pale skin on his neck all romantic. Liam is a cinematic kisser. He was one of those virgins who studied it and longed for it so much he was more than a pro once he got to his first pair of lips. He's passionate like a supermarket romance book, and Harry loves it like he loves butterfly printed suits with flared bottoms. Anything different, anything big enough to take up space.

Harry doesn't realize his eyes are have been closed this whole time until suddenly he's staring at the ceiling. One hand is on the back of Liam's head, the other rubs over the hardened bulge in his jeans. Liam starts kissing his throat, humming contently. He slides out his hands from under Harry's shirt and brings the right one to cup his cheek, while the left reaches down to rub his waist. Liam's breath is getting hot. His kisses louder. His scruff rubs against Harry's pale skin in such a satisfying way. It's all so satisfying.

But suddenly, it's gone.

Harry frowns as he watches Liam push himself off, hands sinking into the sofa cushions on either side of Harry's torso. He crawls down and then lies down. The side of his face is on Harry's belly, and his legs dangle over the arm of the. And then there's a quiet sigh. And then he just stays there. Nothing else comes of it. And Harry can't help but chuckle, dropping his head back against the pillow. Admittedly frustrated— he lets that known with a loud sigh. But he calmly pets Liam's shaved head and stays quiet, knowing he's bound to say something in a moment.

"I can hear your stomach squelching."

"Gross!" Harry makes a face and whines, bringing down both of his hands to form a barrier between Liam's ear and his belly.

"No, wait, I wanted to do something," Liam says, moving his hands away. He pushes himself up again, holding himself up on his left elbow. With his right hand he pets Harry's stomach, looking down with soft eyes.

The frustration of not knowing what's going on is concrete in Harry now; he's very anxious. He brings his hands up to inspect the towel hat. It's tight, secure. Still, he gives it another twist for safe measure. And another for the sake of fidgeting.

"Know what I'm gonna do?"

"What?" Harry frowns.

Liam lifts up his shirt. "Grumbly belly." And digs his scruffy face into Harry's tummy to, quite plainly, grumble incoherently into his skin. "Bmmrsmfmgyrugmfrm..."

"Aaahhh," Harry weakly cries before he starts to laugh.

Grumbly belly. _Like, a sort of raspberry for grown-up's_ , Liam has fatuously claimed in the past. He invented it on their Where We Are tour and did it all the time, piss drunk and handsy. Sometimes not as drunk as he would claim. Sometimes not drunk at all. Liam would do it in surprise attacks while Harry was sleeping on the couch and the boys would laugh around him at the funny prank. No one was ever around the times Liam did it with peppered kisses and a sleepy cuddle. Never did do grumbly belly with anyone else.

This is partly amusing, partly confusing. _What the fuck is he doing_ , Harry thinks to himself, and wonders if Liam has any intentions of picking up what he stopped or if he just chickened out. He can feel Liam's jeaned erection poking against his bare leg. That somehow feels like a clock ticking. "Grumbly belly..." he sighs.

"Grmbwml blrmm..."

"What the fuck," Harry makes a face before breaking into a crinkly-eyed giggle.

"Rmrmrmumhgbrmemrgm..."

"You sound like a gnome! What are you doing?"

"Mm!" Liam whines into his stomach before lifting up his head. "Your tummy's firm now! It was so squishy wishy last time I did grumbly belly." He laments, holding himself up on his elbows again as he wipes his drool from Harry's stomach.

"Don't worry it'll be squishy wishy again soon," Harry admits in a mumble as he reflects on his eating habits.

"I saw that you ate chicken and waffles."

"Oh God."

"On Twitter!"

"What _don't_ you see on Twitter..."

"It was everywhere," Liam laughs. "All the fans were like, 'Harry's such a fake eating kale and yogurt in L.A. but then he eats like, fried chicken in London.' It was brilliant. They're really something else."

It's not that Harry fakes his passion for healthy living. He just forces it. Exercising is easy when Harry's masochistic tendencies make sore muscles feel like badges of honor for each milestone he hits when he pushes himself. But being hungry doesn't feel quite as valiant— or kinky. The willpower has never stayed for permanent residency. Dreams of fast food and baked sweets always haunt him. Harry doesn't even like kale. He's eaten more than just chicken and waffles this break, and has no intention of breaking the habit. At least, while he's in London and all of his health fanatical friends aren't there to bear witness to his fall from borderline-vegan, soul-cycling grace.

"Did you see it?" Liam shifts positions so that his face is cuddling into Harry's bare belly again, his head rising up and down with every inhale and exhale Harry takes.

"Yes."

"You got fucking exposed, mate. Proper doxxed. 'I hate KFC it's so disgusting ew how can you eat that.'"

"KFC _is_ disgusting. The fried chicken I ate was from a free range chicken."

"An organic chicken. A unprocessed, non GMO chicken who went to university. Of course. Was it good?" Liam asks Harry's belly.

"Unghhhh it was so fucking good," Harry groans. "I ate the entire thing. I wanted seconds so bad."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know."

"They call it soul food in America. Like, fried chicken and waffles."

"Mhm."

"I saw it on Food Network. They eat it in the south in like, Texas and the cowboy places. They have a restar—"

"Liam, you have an erection." And Harry lifts his head, tucking his arm behind it for support as he looks down at him. "Did you know?" he asks dryly.

"...Yeah," is all Liam says, taken aback by Harry's sudden assertion. He keeps his hairy cheek squished against Harry's stomach without another word, now humbled by the spotlight on the hardened cock he'd just gotten the hang of ignoring. Harry pushes out his stomach to bounce Liam's head up and down, urging a reaction.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Stop what?" Liam lifts his head, his dark brown eyes looking at Harry.

"Kissing me."

Liam shrugs and lowers his gaze, pushing himself up to hold his weight on his elbows again placed on either side of Harry's hips. His foot shakes nervously as it dangles from the edge of the couch.. "You know... I can get carried away. I didn't want to like, rush into something you didn't like, want. Or like." Liam tries to make it sound vague and trivial. "You're not... I mean.... you're not hard, you know..."

 _Oh_ , Harry thinks, on account of his flaccid penis. _I wasn't being clear_. "I want us to fuck." He thought they were over with the games.

Fixed to the same spot on Harry's shirt, Liam's eyes just widen a little without him meaning to before they narrow back down. And he doesn't say anything for a while. "Shit." It's a whisper, his expression unchanging. "Okay."

"Do you want to fuck me?" Harry asks bluntly as he rubs his leg into Liam's crotch. Like shining a bright light on his face, making him squint.

Liam just blows out through his mouth.

"That means no," Harry says as he drops his towel-clad head back onto the couch pillow.

"N-No, no I do. I do want to."

"Don't force it."

"I know what I want." It's the first clear statement Liam makes since Harry actually brought up his hard dick. And it took a little bravery to bring himself to do it. "I'm not a fucking baby. It's just hard for me to talk." Now his voice is low like he's annoyed. Liam takes offense to the typecasting that comes with his particular confusion; his own words unspoken.

"You'd feel better if you talked about it."

Liam chuckles with the wave of his index finger, "Touché." Pausing for a moment before crawling up, and stopping with his hands flat on the sofa on either side of Harry's head. He looks down at him, at his pretty pale face and baggy eyes. "I'll do whatever you want." That's how Liam phrases it. Going around it; cloaked in ambiguity. Harry's lips curve into a little smile, dimples sinking into his cheeks. He's grabbing at his own dick this time; hand down his underwear. And he wants this so bad all over again. He looks up at Liam, letting the unbroken meeting of their gazes make his heartbeat quicken.

They just kiss right away.

Liam doesn't make an effort to hold back this time. Harry never was to begin with. So they kiss really hard, pressing their bodies against each other. This was supposed to mean something a while ago— something about stars and saving cats under cars. Now Harry can't remember. But that's nothing to complain about. If anything, this is serving its very purpose. Liam is just so heavy and good and warm. His cock is growing bigger and harder in his hand, and now Harry can't think about anything else. So he won't.

"Take it off," Harry murmurs between a kiss as he pulls at Liam's grey hoodie. Liam quickly obeys and drops his jacket to the floor along with the shirt he wore under it. Bare chest to Harry's clothed one, now. But there's nothing he can do about Harry's shirt, on account to the towel wrapped around his head. Liam moans against Harry's lips when he feels his hand run his hand down his back until he's grabbing his ass. He squeezes, pulling Liam's hips down between his legs.

They adjust themselves to accommodate to a new position. Harry's legs are spread and hooked around Liam's waist, and Liam thrusts between Harry's thighs like he belongs there. They take breaks between kissing, where they just nuzzle and pant quietly. And then Liam pulls back, sitting on his legs so he can watch as he slides off Harry's underwear. Harry feels the goosebumps run up his spine at the feeling of his hard cock being pulled down by the fabric before springing back against his stomach. He can't help but whimper, hand coming down to jack off. Liam's eyes are heavy, taking his time to swallow up the image of Harry like this because he doesn't think he ever has. Nothing but a towel on his head and a t-shirt on, thighs spread apart with his cock and balls on full display. His cheeks are flushed a more rosy red than Liam's could ever be; eyes glazing already.

"Just fuck me..." Harry breathes, eyes falling closed as he moves his other hand rub over his hole. "Stretch me out..." He can hear Liam undoing his jeans and he wishes he could see.

"No lube?"

"No, _yes_ lube," Harry laughs, opening his eyes before he lifts his head a little. Liam is there, sitting on his legs with his jeans pushed down to his thighs; cock out as he jacks off. He's as anxious and excited as Harry is. But confidence would threaten to make him reckless, so he holds himself back by the reins. A little confused. "DIY. Come here." Harry tells him as he closes his eyes again and rests his head back on the sofa pillow. Lube is all the way in his bedroom upstairs and Harry isn't in the mood for more interruptions. He outstretches his arm, pulling Liam in once he grabs his hand. They fit together again; Liam between Harry's legs, holding himself on top of him, limited space on the couch boxing them in.

"DIY?"

And then Harry starts sucking on Liam's index finger. Liam gets the idea and chuckles.

He holds himself up on his left hand, eyes now transfixed on Harry's pink lips wrapped around him as he slides his finger back and forth in his mouth. Liam pulls out his slick finger, then slides the other into the wetness of Harry's mouth for the same treatment. And Harry opens his bright green eyes to look up at him, letting his lips part as he licks his slippery tongue over that finger until Liam joins the first one again. Harry's kissing them both, licking them, getting them as obscenely soaked in drool as her can. So slutty, he knows he's being. Fisting his cock hard.

Liam pulls his hand away with a little kiss to Harry's lips as if to pacify the sudden loss. He's rubbing at Harry's hole, tapping his dripping fingers over it to hear the wet little slaps. That's really doing it for Harry; making his breath hitch with eyes shut tight as he strokes his cock, squeezes his balls. It's anticipation; waiting for the moment. That moment; when he finally feels Liam slide his slick finger inside him. Easing in slowly, wriggling against his insides as he keeps sliding in and out. And then comes his other finger. Something's making this feel overwhelming for Harry, like pleasure's an electric shock running through him. And he knits his brow together tight as he parts his lips, turning his face into his shoulder as he breathes hard.

Liam pushes himself up a little, dropping his head so he can look at his hand between Harry's legs. Because he's never done this before— it was always Harry's job. It's mesmerizing to feel him around his fingers; the heat, the pressure. A bead of precum is shining up at the very tip of his cock as it begins to throb. And Liam wraps his other hand around it clumsily to touch himself. Wants it wetter so he spits in his hand and rubs the shaft up and down until it's squelching with every stroke. Everything is wet and warm and tight around him. And then he drops his weight down again. Liam starts going harder, finger-fucking Harry fast with his two curved fingers. "Want me to fuck you?" He nuzzles into Harry's neck, panting and kissing his jaw.

It takes Harry by surprise to hear him talk dirty. "Yeah...." And Liam's pulling away his fingers, teasing Harry's stretched out hole with his wet dick as he grinds down. A chill runs up his spine.

"You're so pretty... mmh..." The tip of his cock rubs against Harry's hole as he holds it steady.

Harry smiles, wrapping his left arm around Liam's neck.

"Lovely boy..."

And Liam's squeezing his cock inside him. Inch by inch, little by little. Until his hips are pressed to Harry's ass; all the way inside. Harry can feel his jeans, still halfway up his thighs, rubbing agasint his ass. He moans deep and holds Liam close against him as he breathes into the bare skin of his shoulder. "Come on..." he whimpers with the thrusting of his hips, begging for movement. And Liam gives it to him. All of it— because he's been bottling it up. Slow thrusts turn fast and hard as he snaps his hips back and forth, fucking so hard he's got Harry crying out with his eyes squeezed shut. And Harry can't remember the last time he was fucked. But it must've been a long time ago for him to feel so good now. It had to have been. Because he feels this everywhere, again and again and again. "Harder..." He wants more than he can take. Being out of breath has never been more satisfying. It's a feeling of fulfillment; he needed this.

Funny, he thinks, knowing this is more than just a physical appetite; how sex and sanity find a way to cross paths with him.

"It's been such a long fucking day..." Harry says without thinking, and he starts to laughs as he squeezes his eyes shut. Liam starts to laugh, too, face still buried in his neck. _I'm fucking losing it_ , Harry thinks to himself before whispering, "Fuck me harder." So greedy so soon. But Liam promotes his efforts anyway like a hardworking dog; wet cock slamming into Harry again and again. Gets greedy himself and starts kissing him. And Harry just lets himself go with moaning; loud, louder. It's his house anyway. And none of this is about holding back or going slow. Going as hard and fast as they can and getting off however quickly that ends up being. Doesn't matter as long as it feels as good as it does now. Harry feels it in his chest— the buzzing of his pleasure, amplified in the echo of his living room as it rings in his ears.

Moaning turns to whining, back to moaning, to whimpering. Liam's jeans are scratching on Harry's skin hard but Harry likes it somehow. Liam's hunched over on top of him, face buried in his neck as his hands touch all over his body. "You feel so good, Harry... " Under his shirt again, over his tummy. "You're perfect..." Red-tinted fond that threatens to make Harry rethink what he means to him— at least, as much as he can as he's getting fucked in the ass. Which isn't very much at all.

Especially when Liam's cock starts grazing by his prostate. Harry's eyes widen, looking into the ceiling. "Right there... r-right there..." he gasps in trembling breaths, his eyebrows curving upward as he fists his cock frantically.

"I'm gonna cum," Liam's voice cracks, sliding his arms under Harry's armptis to grab onto his shoulders. He rocks his body forward and every thrust knocks the breath out of him.

 _God, already_ , Harry thinks to himself and he lets out a breathy laugh.

"I'm gonna cum I'm gonna fucking cum— "

Harry whimpers when Liam slides out of him so suddenly. He can't help but lift his head and look down between his legs. And there Liam is, rubbing his hand up and down his wet cock frantically, muscles in his abdomen clenching and spasming. And then his orgasm rips through him; shooting clear cum onto Harry's stomach, his shirt, his face. Harry wipes it away from his cheek before licking it up. Liam is red faced with eyes shut tight, body smothered in sensation. He stays panting for a while as he trembles, hand still stroking himself.

And then he slides his cock back into Harry with a choked whimper. "Fuck," Harry gasps, wrapping his arms around Liam as he drops his weight over him again. This is something he hadn't expected. The shock makes his own cock twitch in his hand. Because Liam wants him to cum the way he knows Harry was anticipating. A promise he didn't keep; he'd feel guilty if he didn't do this, as scorching as this feels for his cock. So he can't help but whimper the whole way, muffling himself against Harry's skin.

Harry can imagine just from hearing him. It's as endearing as it is pressuring. So he makes an effort to get himself off quick. His grip on his cock is too tight, his other hand pinching and tugging on his nipples. He kisses Liam's neck as if to comfort him, letting the prettiest moans escape his lips as if to reward him for the sacrifice. It gets even easier once Liam's hitting that spot again, his shaft rubbing against it harder and harder. Harry's fingers tremble against his chest, against his cock— he's getting close. And with a cry he's cumming hard, head turning back into the pillow. He'd forgotten about the rolled up aluminum under the towel. It digs into the back of his head and he winces. Turns his head to the side. He feels the cum land on his stomach, then dribble down his hand. His orgasm makes his abdomen twitch as he raises his hips, and Liam pulls out as he starts to rub his trembling thighs.

It's like before, where Harry didn't realize his eyes were closed until suddenly he's looking up at the white ceiling. His face feels as burning as it looks; cheeks, nose and lips bright pink. His hips are back down on the sofa, his cum-drenched hand placed on his stomach. Now all he feels is his heart pounding, his dick slowly going soft. Harry wonders how Liam's is doing. He's collapsed, full weight down on top of him. He can hear him panting like it's not really over for him. Harry was going to say something— ask a question, maybe. But his mind is foggy and his head is spinning. And it doesn't help when he's suddenly cut off mid-thought by,

" _Llllllllet's get rready to rrrruuumbleeeeeeeee!!_ "

"What the fuck is that?"

Liam starts to laugh, face buried in the pillow next to Harry's head. "Oh shit!" And it starts again,

" _Llllllllet's get rready to rrrruuumbleeeeeeeee!!_ "

"What the fuck _is_ that?!" Harry feels like a skittish horse, shoving at Liam for insight on the joke. The sound comes from a short distance, like it's just behind the couch.

" _Llllllllet's get rready to rrrruuumbleeeeeeeee!!_ "

"It's my phone. That's the... ringtone. The—"

" _Llllllllet's get rready to rrrruuumbleeeeeeeee!!_ "

"—the alarm I put for your hair."

"Oh, no fucking _way_!" Harry cackles, eyes squeezed shut. "It's seriously ringing now? Right fucking now?"

Like an impressive slide before touching base, just making it to a home run. Like God _really_ wanted Harry to have this good fuck.

Liam laughs somewhat weakly as he pushes himself off from on top of Harry, lifting his pants up once he's on his feet. He disappears behind the couch and in just a moment the ringtone stops. Harry's stretching out his legs in the newly vacant space, taking a deep breath that finally sets the pace to normal breathing. He'll sit up now, he decides; creaking his body upright as the back of his hand supports the towering towel on his head. And he keeps his hand there, as if to acknowledge that yes, wow, his hair has blonde highlights under there.

"What kind of ringtone was that?"

"It's uh..." Liam chuckles from behind the couch. "It's from wrestling. This guy, he goes, ' _Let's get ready to rrrumble!'_ before the fights. It's my ringtone for my uh— my alarm when I'm about to work out. It seemed fitting for this occasion.... At the time..."

"It was stressful."

"Your carpet's got a bunch of yellow stains on it, by the way. It looks like seven puppies pissed everywhere," Liam mumbles as he walks into view.

"Seven puppies." Harry crosses his legs to make room for Liam as he takes a seat on the sofa. He's sitting sideways, body facing him. Liam still looks wound up; a bit slouched and panting, still. He's red from the face down to his bare chest, and just a little damp with sweat. He sweats easily.

"It's an estimate."

"I still can't believe the alarm went off like, right after we finished. Well done."

Liam drops his head back onto the couch, turning to look at Harry before he mumbles, "Imagine if I hadn't cum so fast."

"You didn't cum that fast." Harry's eyes quickly look down to Liam's crotch, where his flushed, hard cock peaks from the hem of his underwear in his unbuttoned, unzipped jeans.

"Fast enough."

"Yeah."

"Hey, go," Liam slaps his hand down on Harry's knee. "You've got to wash the hair dye off in the shower."

"I'll be washing off more than just hair dye off in the shower..." Harry smirks as he looks at the cum on his hand and stomach.

Liam's face turns red with a snort. He flicks Harry's balls with his fingertips until he's squirming away off the couch with a whine. He nearly trips, knees weak and and bottom sore from getting fucked. _This couch had me like a bloody pretzel_ , he realizes in his head. His hand inspects the towel to make sure it hasn't collapsed. Liam starts to laugh, more arrogant than embarrassed but he only publishes the latter with a, "Sorry."

"What about you? Your..." Harry waves at Liam's dick, "situation. "

"I'll tend to it. Just go."

It's a funny sensation to feel his cock and balls swinging around while his shirt is still on. His stomach feels sticky, now. His hand especially. Now conscious of it all, Harry looks forward to the shower. "Alright." Another quick stretch and he's walking away. He looks down at the carpet as he passes by, somewhat bothered by just how stained it got.

"I'm gonna stick around for when you've finished," Liam calls out. "I want to see my _masterpiece_!"

"Alright!" Harry yells out from the kitchen as his feet pat on the wooden floorboard. Reminds him of earlier in the day, when Liam was the one yelling from the kitchen while he was sitting on his little stool. "Wonder what time it is..." he thinks out loud. Now he's walking up the stairs.

And it's funny.

Although the afterglow of his orgasm begins to wear off, Harry is pleasantly surprised to find that his earlier anxiety hasn't settled back in. He's almost forgotten what it even felt like. Right now he's just excited. And it's the perfect kind, too; not too sick, not too calm. Jittery enough it makes him smile. Especially when he's taking off the aluminum foil from his hair in the bathroom mirror. Harry finds himself blurring his own vision so he doesn't spoil the surprise, quickly turning away once his hair is completely loose.

Cat crawled out of the car. It looks fine. No further reflection.

_Surfer boy highlights. Liam's downstairs for a visit. Gonna have some ice cream when I come downstairs._

"All's well that ends well," Harry mumbles to himself as he turns on the shower.


	5. The Front Door

"Is that the same towel as before?"

"No, it's a different one."

Liam frowns, standing up from the couch to walk around it, over to the spot with all the yellow hair dye stains where Harry stands. "Why the towel?" he asks, somewhat offended by it.

"For uh..." Harry reaches both his hands up to touch the brand new towel hat on his head, "the big reveal." Squeaky clean and fresh out a long shower, there's an absolutely pure excitement in him. He's in high— albeit jittery— spirits. The bathroom mirrors were fogged with steam once his shower was over, and Harry found himself definitely _not_ wanting to wipe them clean to have at a look at the finished results of his newly highlighted hair. Letting Liam break the news and rate the job done was the perfect option, he decided. If Harry's hair comes out horrible, Liam will never admit fault in it. Not only because he spent too much genuine effort to be hard on himself, but because his instinct simply won't allow him to hurt Harry's feelings. Ever. So Harry wrapped up his hair, convincing himself the act was more likened to wrapping a present than concealing a mistake. Sweatpants and a striped shirt make his new outfit as he stand there: downstairs, back in the living room.

"Well, reveal," Liam urges him.

"Nnn....no I don't want to."

"Wh— " Liam sighs. "Have you seen what it looks like?"

And Harry giggles. "No, I'm too nervous."

"Come on let me see. I'll tell you how it looks."

That was the idea the whole time. But Harry doesn't mention it. "Alright." And he winces. This is it. Today's conclusion. For better or for worse, there's no turning back. His hands reach up to the towel, slowly untwisting it.

"Oh my God hurry."

"God..." He keeps untwisting, feeling the pressure around his head slowly disappear as the towel hat comes undone.

"Go go go go go go—"

And then Harry yanks the towel down in one hard pull, the heavy fabric thumping lightly on the stained white carpet as he holds it in his fist. "Eughhh how does it look?" He's got his eyes shut tight, nose crinkled as his heart riots in his chest and he thinks, _It's gonna look bad it's gonna look bad_ — 

"It looks _awesome_!"

Harry opens his eyes to see Liam up in his face, moving his fingers through his slightly wet hair with a goofy grin.

"I fucking did it! Holy shit."

He smiles, breathing a sigh of relief before asking, "How is it?" to cast away his doubt once and for all.

"I mean, it's highlights! You've got, you know, like—"

Harry tosses the dark blue towel over to the couch as he asks, "Is it blonde? What color is it?" His slender hands joins Liam to blindly touch through his hair.

The change isn't too noticeable, but only because his wet hair makes it hard to tell apart highlights from water just reflecting light. But Liam is in awe, both at his own skill and how perfectly the new look suits Harry. "It's really pretty. It is wet but you can still tell where like, the color changes and gets light and stuff. It looks good." And Liam leans in, looking at him straight in the eyes. " _Objectively_."

"You're incapable of being objective." The type of person to tell you exactly what you want to hear. At least, that's how it always is with Harry.

"I'm not— Go look in the mirror! So you can see for yourself!"

"I'm joking, Leslie," Harry chuckles. "I trust you."

Liam shrugs, tucking his hands in jeans' pockets. "I mean, I don't mean to brag but I did a fucking brilliant job. You ought to pay me." And he can't help but take a few steps forward to touch over it again. "Fuck, I've got talent. I've got a gift, Styles, I told you." Maybe he's exaggerating to be funny, maybe he isn't. "This is my first time. I was improvising!"

"I'm gonna serve up some ice cream. Want some?"

Liam narrows his eyes at being ignored. "You're not gonna look at your hair in the mirror?"

"No, yeah. I just wanna look when it's dry. Just like, the one-hundred percent finished... look." Harry assures him. "My hair looks different when it's wet it's just— I'll confuse myself." Because he's afraid he'll ruin this for himself again. He stays detached to that, protective of his current happiness. Liam's smiling and Harry's smiling and it's all good. He's determined not to spoil this.

"Alright. Well send me a pic when it's dry."

Now it's Harry's turn to have his face sink a bit, only his does with the furrow of his brow. "You're not staying?" Harry should've known when he saw that Liam had his shoes on.

"I was supposed to be at my parent's place like, an hour ago. Some of the groceries were theirs," Liam laughs. "Completely forgot."

"You're leaving now?"

"Uh... yeah, actually. Sorry." He finds himself reaching into his pockets, pulling out the keys to his car for an acknowledging jingle. "Let's just—" he motions in the direction of the hall that leads to the front door. Harry gets the idea, and they start walking. Out of the living room they go to echo through Harry's big, bleak house. "Today was fun, though. Loads of fun."

"Today was a fucking mess."

"I tend to enjoy those around you."

Like a light switch; Harry doesn't miss this opportunity. "Enjoying yourself. Right." And he speeds up to walk in front of Liam, now walking backwards to tease, "Did you jack off on my couch while I was taking a shower, by the way? I was wondering." 

It didn't take a lot for Liam to cum. He started jacking off before Harry even got to the kitchen, while the memory of fucking him was still fresh enough that his arousal would allow him to somewhat hallucinate the moment all over again. His cock began to hurt at the very tip, so sensitive and bright red as if to warn and beg for mercy, for Liam to stop stroking so violently. Eyes shut tight, panting hard and groaning hard as long as he didn't hear the bathroom door open upstairs. He'd grabbed Harry's underwear and held them to his face, breathing him in until it was hard to breathe at all; suffocating in it. That was some orgasm.

Liam narrows his eyes, cheeks turning red.

"Did you clean up?" Harry can't keep a straight face, his lips curving into a smirk. His curiosity is genuine, so in the back of his mind he regrets tormenting Liam because now he'll never get to know. "I hope you cleaned up."

Liam sighs, moving on to insist again, "Text me a picture of your hair when it's dry."

Harry stops and lets Liam pass him as he walks. "I don't do selfies."

"Set up a tripod and snap a photo with your polaroid and mail it to me in a letter if you want to be vintage about it."

Harry chortles. There's too much truth to it; selfies just don't fit with his early 60s black and white aesthetic. No one took selfies back then, he'd feel too silly to ever argue. But everyone knows it's why. Such a peculiar and somewhat somber aesthetic he's grown an interest in. Maybe there's something deeper to the appeal of brooding faces and colorless landscapes. Harry would rather it's another passing phase; being twenty-one and experimenting as often as he always does. Harry wants to believe he's harmless.

They've finally reached the front door, now. Liam leans against the frame, waiting for Harry to catch up to him.

"I really want a photo." Not just because he wants to see Harry's hair, but because he wants to be the exception; know that he's special enough to have the holy grail that is a Harry Styles selfie. Harry is such a ridiculous human being, Liam thinks. No one could ever have him this enthralled. Or enamored. It could be either.

"I'll see if I have any post stamps around."

Liam points his finger at him, frowning with not-so faux seriousness. "I'm serious. I want a picture." 

Suddenly Harry grabs Liam's hand— left hand. Because it caught his eye for a second. Something he'd really forgotten about, and he doesn't know how he could. "Roses," he mumbles with a pout as he quickly cuddles up to Liam's tattooed hand before dropping it. It was a quick acknowledgement. Or, a reminder maybe. That it still means as much to him now as it did earlier when he was crying about it.

Liam smiles as he leans in, wrapping his arm around Harry's neck to pull him into a hug. He smells spectacularly fruity and sweet, no doubt from some luxurious body scrub. Harry's face presses into Liam's chest as he hunches over, dangling his arms in front of himself like a rag doll. "I'll see you around, mate." And then he hears the twist of the door handle as Liam steps away. Harry didn't want this.

"Bye-bye."

And he finds it strange how much he hates seeing Liam go. He reminds himself of his mother for a moment; watching Liam's car leave the driveway before he speeds off, disappears. 

Now the house is a whole different kind of barren when Harry walks inside. There's a louder echo that fills the corridors and feels like it's going through his body too. Right now would be the moment he grabs his keys and leaves, going to restaurants and parks and never coming back until it's dark— or he spots a stalker. Harry sighs, hand reaching up to touch his hair. It's drying fast, he notices. At least it won't be long until he gets to take a look in the mirror. Maybe Liam's perception is warped, he starts to consider. Maybe his hair is disaster, in reality. But to think like that would be to shoot himself in the foot. He stops, zaps his brain.

"Think I'll have that ice cream," Harry talks to himself to fill his empty house with a small something as he makes his way back into his kitchen.

Liam did actually clean up. The two wooden stools are back in their rightful place against the counter. Harry nods, as if to congratulate an absent presence. His hand slaps each seat as he passes by, until he's behind the counter and heading towards the fridge. But before he can get there, he notices a sheet of paper on the floor. It looks like an instruction paper from the box of hair dye. It must've slipped off the counter, somehow. But Harry could've sworn Liam used it as part of his 'working table'. He walks over, bending down to pick it up.

"Ooo pictures." There's a glamorously-styled drawing of a woman for each step, demonstrating the process. Arched eyebrows and a slender neck, looking sultry as she applies hair dye to her head with a plastic bottle. Harry's eyes scan the rest of the paper with interest for a moment. It's when he looks to the top header that he frowns.

_L'Oreal Paris Couleur Experte Express_

" _L'Oreal?_ " He didn't buy L'Oreal. "It was Jerome Russell." He remembers. Harry raises his head to look around for traces of a L'oreal hair dye box. But he doesn't know why there would be. He had put the box of Jerome Russell hair dye in Liam's cart for him to buy at Tesco.

Unless he didn't buy it.

 _'L'Oreal is rubbish.'_ Like a ghost, Tesco Beehive-Hair Woman's voice haunts his head with her warnings. Harry feels his heart stop just enough to let him know he's going to get upset over this.

If Liam cleaned up everything, any pieces of evidence must be in the trash. So he walks over quickly and pulls the drawer open. Immediately, he spots the open Jerome Russell hair dye box lying inside, but that ends up confusing him more. He reaches his hand inside to pull it out. And his heart stops a second time as he finds that the box is heavy— like there's unopened bottles inside. Harry wants to have doubts; optimistic about whatever horror is unfolding right now. But there isn't room for any when he reaches his hand inside.

Yes, _unopened_ bottles of Jerome Russell hair dye. But there's also a crumbled up instruction pamphlet and a black plastic bowl all covered in dye that was shoved into the box to be disposed. The ones Liam was using. He made a switch. He used the dye from the L'Oreal highlighting kit and used the Jerome Russell tools to have Harry believing he was using the box he'd picked out himself; the box he was so vehemently determined and excited to use.

"What the fuck." That sounds absurd. Whatever is happening, Harry wasn't prepared for it when he walked into his kitchen to have some ice cream. The answers won't occur to him, so he digs for them in the trash. There he finds two open boxes of L'Oreal Paris Couleur Experte Express. ' _ALL OVER COLOR & HIGHLIGHTS ONLY 30 MINUTES!_' The colors read 8.2 Medium Iridescent Blonde, and 6.3 Light Golden Brown. But they don't feel too lightweight in Harry's hands. Sure enough, there's three bottles inside each box; two little bottles are empty, and one little bottle is completely full. The trays that comes inside both boxes are brand new without use, too. Harry's face feels red with anxiety and a confusing kind of anger.

"Liam what did you _fucking do_."

Because he has no idea. He only knows this isn't what he thought Liam was doing. For whatever reason, Liam was looking to deceive. Harry throws both boxes back into the trash and stomps out kitchen. To hell with surprises and good moods. It feels spoiled and spit on. Harry just wants to get to a mirror as quickly as possible to see what Liam did to his hair. A deep frown is marked on his face and his brow trembles under the strain. He tried to make this a good thing. The feeling of being lied to bothers him more than anything. Because _why_? Why would Liam do that? And Harry doesn't know how to feel all over again. He feels stupid, and already sick thinking about how bad his hair will look.

Now he's walking in the bathroom.

Now he's turning on the light.

Now he's looking in the mirror.

And now his expression is softened. Takes a deep breath, before letting it out slow.

His hair must've dried a bit with all the running, pacing and moving, he notices. He reaches his hand up, looking at his reflection. And he runs his hands through his soft and clean curls.

"Pretty..."

Against the bathroom light, Harry's hair shines with shadows of light caramel and honey— 6.3 Light Golden Brown— with faint flashes of bright blonde— 8.2 Medium Iridescent Blonde— closer to the bottom that catch Harry's eyes with a twinkle. It's really, _really_ pretty. Harry can't stop looking, brows coming together again as his mind starts to run. In circles— because now it all makes perfect sense.

_'Harry I'm like, 99% certain that this isn't what you want.'_

_'I know plenty about hair, actually. Because I'm like, actually in the room for when it's time for Lou to do our hair. And you don't need to know about hair when the pictures show you what the hair dye does.'_

It _was_ about tricking Harry. But Liam was doing it to watch out for him. Because Harry was too stubborn and impulsive about his dream to listen to him. Yes, he really did know better this time. And God, Liam really did put effort into this. So much, too much. From secretly buying the right boxes to dye Harry's hair, to secretly switching the bottles and boxes to keep him from freaking out, to improvising the best job he could do. Harry just... doesn't understand how Liam could do so much for him like that. Not even just the hair dye. The rose tattoo, the monologuing, the sex—

Harry is a little dizzy, maybe. Because maybe he knows the answer behind Liam's seemingly endless hospitality perhaps not-so platonic sacrificing. Harry doesn't know if it's something he could ever really come to terms with. And he thinks, maybe Liam doesn't want him to, either. Everything would've been said and done by now if it was meant to be, right? This isn't something Harry can think about. Because it isn't the first time he has. And he knows in fact and certitude that Liam would die if he knew it was passing again and again through his mind. Another thought for him to zap, another thing to dodge and put away.

But the aftermath of that little murder isn't hard or hurtful. This all still manages to be perfect. Because Harry didn't realize he was smiling so wide until he somehow becomes aware of his own reflection again, despite having been facing the mirror this whole time.

"Subtle California beach highlights," Harry laughs, imitating the way Liam had mocked him in the grocery store earlier in the morning. He really can't stop touching his hair. He didn't think he could be more in love with it. Be more in love with something else, too.

Highlights. In every sense of the word. From one fiasco to another. It's lead up to this.

"Woah," he grins wide, big-cheeked. "I look good."

 

 

 

  
Liam is in the middle of helping his mother organize groceries into her cabinet when his phone gives a little jingle, letting him know he's received a text message. He puts away the box of biscuits in his hand before he reaches into his jeans pocket.

 **_Sunshine_ **  
_Please delete this. Thank you._

Liam quickly unlocks his phone with a grin on his face. And he lets out a laugh that makes his mother turn her head. "What's so funny?"

Harry sent him that selfie after all. Brow furrowed deep with an unimpressed pout as his— completely dry— curly, highlighted hair flows down his shoulders and frames his face. It looks like he's outside in a garden somewhere or maybe a backyard, Liam thinks. Green, leafy vegetation behind Harry makes his green eyes look more brilliant under the sunshine. There's another text under it, making Liam scratch at the top of his head for giddy-grinned fidgeting's sake. 

_(And thank you for everything. (I love you.))_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave kudos, and share with me your thoughts!


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